


If only.............

by SheyRicci



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caring Sam, Gen, Hurt Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 22:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6259117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheyRicci/pseuds/SheyRicci
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam desired anonymity, isolation, rest and relaxation for the two of them.  He got manual labor, bar fights and a concussed brother.  Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

It was dusk, the sun long gone behind the mountains but not yet taking the last remnants of daylight with it. If one happened to peer out the cabin window, one would see the large black car sitting at the end of the dirt lane, but beyond that, nothing. Nothing but shadows leading into the woods that soon led to the Cascade Mountains.

The one-story cabin was small but well-built, standing alone against the weather and elements and whatever wildlife called the surrounding forest home; wildlife that made it unsafe to risk a trip to the outhouse after dark. No other cabins were nearby, nope, not within ten miles. And at this time of year, others in that radius were unoccupied.

Sam sat in the rocker, rocking gently, staring out the window, the glass pane emitting cold he could feel without his cheek touching the glass. He'd already closed the shutters and drawn the heavy curtains against the cold on all the other windows, but until the last wink of daylight had winked out, the view from this window would remain.

The room was peacefully, blissfully quiet. The only sound the snapping fire burning cheerily in the open fireplace across the room; the fire that supplied the only light in the cabin. He really should get up and light a candle or one of the several lanterns but eh, why bother? He wasn't ready to read or cook dinner, he'd rather just sit and watch the blanket of darkness settle over the night outside until he could no longer see out the window. No other reason why then because he could, because he liked to, because he enjoyed sitting and doing nothing. So, he sat. And rocked. And stared out the window. Until he could no longer see anything. Not even the moon. Or any stars.

Finally, he sighed, pushing out of the hand-made wood chair that really, was not at all comfortable. He closed the shutters and pulled the curtains, then paced the living area of the cabin he'd retreated to; the cabin that was not the cabin where he usually went to hole up with his brother the way a dog retreated to his bed when he was done with being bothered. No, not that one; the one they thought of as Rufus's cabin, with the armchair Sam liked to sit in, its padding worn and all wrong for his form, but had been just right for Bobby's. That one was in Montana, too far to drive to. Now anyway.

This cabin was off the grid and had somehow been found by Cas when Sam had requested he find them a place of solitude and peace where they could stay while Dean recovered – mentally more than physically – from a haunting where they'd lost a nine year-old innocent kid. Oh yeah, Dean had taken the loss hard, really hard, and Sam had thought it best to leave hunting behind for a while; for Sam missed his, drank-too-much-slept-too-little-ran-around-all-the-time-ribald-joke-telling brother. Oh, Dean had had these moody spells before, more than once, but he always snapped out of it within a few days on his own or after a heartfelt confession to Sam, but not this time.

Despite the fact he was somewhere in Maine chasing down a book of obscure lore, Cas had come through when Sam had asked for his help obtaining what he wanted – a free lost-in-the-wilderness cabin. Their faithful angel had asked no questions and issued assurances that no one would bother them or question their right to stay at the cabin and Sam had accepted the offer without question and with much gratitude.

He had no idea who owned it nor did he care, for the cabin currently suited his mood. There was no electricity, just a gas-fed generator he ran an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening to recharge batteries, phones, tablets and laptops – oh, and Dean's portable DVD player. There was no indoor plumbing, just a camp shower, a fire-fed boiler that held 5 gallons of water and a compost toilet for times when it was too cold or simply not safe to venture outside to the outhouse. The nearby stream provided them with fresh water, though Sam, being Sam, insisted all water be boiled before using it to cook or wash with. And there would be NO drinking it at all.

In one corner of the room was the 'kitchen': a sink with a drain that didn't have running water, a propane fed camp stove and a convection oven that required power from the generator to operate. All Sam had to do was – not run out of propane or gasoline. And if he did, well, he could cook over an open flame, though he preferred not to. There was a small table with 3 chairs along one wall and a sofa and two chairs with a coffee table sat in the middle of the room, across from the kitchen, close to the fire. That was it.

He crossed the room and stopped in front of the fire, extending his hands to its welcoming warmth before running a hand over the mantle that was made out of a tree trunk, sanded and shaved to a shiny, smooth surface by hand. It had issues, this cabin did and yeah, someone probably could have improved on its numerous faults but someone had put their back and loving touch into making it comfortable and cozy. The handmade furniture and hand sewn quilts and crocheted afghans and braided throw rugs, the mismatched dishes and lack of modern amenities gave the cabin a 'homey' feeling the bunker would just never have. And they needed that.

And yeah, okay, so it was winter. And in winter, there was always the danger of being snowed in. They didn't have snowmobiles and not even the Impala could navigate the amounts of snow the closest 'community' in these Cascade Mountains, Government Camp, was known to get. But, had they the desire, snowmobiles were easily, if not always legally, obtained. And there were always the snow shoes and skis in the shed outback so, if they had to, they could walk out. There was even a sled, so if one of them was injured and couldn't walk, the other could pull them out.

Sam set the fire screen aside and poked the logs with the solid iron poker, idly wondering if the cabin in his mother's family still stood. They should go look sometime. No, really, they should. Whose cabin was it now? Who paid the taxes? Anyone?

He straightened arching his back, muscles sore and shoulders tight from chopping wood all day. He didn't mind repeatedly raising an axe over his head and whacking wood in two. It was good exercise. Good for his mental health, his heart, his stamina, his strength, but he wasn't in his 20's anymore. And he'd forgotten how much work and effort lugging water and chopping trees and stacking wood and doing just about everything by hand was. Time for some menthol rub, handful of ibuprofen and maybe some hot towels.

He added two logs to the fire and set the screen back in place. He liked being here, loved being away from everyone and everything, his life, his responsibilities, his problems, the world… he could sprawl in the old armchair next to the fire and read a book….a western or a spy thriller and the only thing required of him was adding another log to the fire. Here is where he got needed comfort and security and the feeling one had as a child when a simple word from Dad would make everything all better.

As for Dean? Well hell, he didn't know if Dean ever found contentment or comfort anywhere. Not like Sam did anyway. Maybe he did at Rufus's cabin, where he went both on his own and with Sam, but Sam didn't really know. They never took anyone else there and there was never any sign that anyone else had been there between their visits. Nope. It was their retreat and theirs alone….but they weren't there this time.

Sam had wanted off the grid, where no one knew them or could guess where they had gone or how to find them. So here, thanks to Cas, they were. But…living off the grid meant no credit or electronic transactions. They didn't have a bank account, not that writing checks was at all a good idea when a person was trying to get and remain lost. So that meant cash. And to obtain cash, one had to work for it. And to work for it, without receiving a paycheck, on which your social security number was required for taxes, one had to work under the table.

And for Sam, working under the table was courtesy of another assist from Cas. Well, Sam thought so anyway. He'd mentioned a need for cash and an opportunity for just such a job had fallen right in 'his lap'. Sam had no idea how Cas managed to arrange vacant cabins and temporary jobs out of thin air, he didn't ask, Cas never said and again, he simply did not care. Even on the other side of the country, Cas came through and that was enough to satisfy Sam.

His under-the-table-temporary-cash-paying job was at a bar near a ski resort some 20 miles away. A bar whose 'bouncer' had 'accidentally' dropped a keg of beer on his foot, breaking it, on the same night Sam happened to be at the bar and available to offer his services 'just' for the weeks their bar-back would be laid up. Good ole divine intervention, thanks Cas.

So, he worked Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, 7:00 p.m. until closing, arriving back at the cabin by 3:00 a.m. It also provided him with the opportunity to bring home food from the bars kitchen and the stream, once Sam broke through the thin layer of ice, provided the services of a fridge and freezer. Time alone, space and well, just time had a healing touch and Sam was content to remain until all the haunted looks, self-doubt and second guessing plaguing Dean had been conquered. Mmmmm...all had gone well for three weeks.

Three. Whole. Weeks.

Sam hadn't minded leaving Dean alone at the cabin. Solitude and time alone was good for the soul and it worked. And Dean hadn't minded being left alone. But Dean…..well, he was Dean. And soon, he was restless and bored, so they'd gone to the city two nights ago, and wouldn't you know, Dean being Dean, had not interacted well with the 'local-yokels' as he referred to them, and in his frame of mind – probably seeking punishment for something he was not responsible for – he had picked a fight with four of the local-yokels, whom Sam mentally labelled 'mountain-grown blokes' since they were bigger than Sam and all brawn, with Sam nowhere in sight.

Well, okay, let's be fair. Dean had not set out to pick a fight with anyone. The Paul-Bunyan-sized-four had been harassing the bartender, making fun of other patrons at the bar and made the mistake of asking Dean what his problem was. Yeah, that had not gone well.

And where had Sam been? Oh, he'd been at the laundromat, the library, the café, the mini-mart, the liquor store searching fruitlessly for Dean's favorite beer, wasting time and enjoying some alone time. Oh, and attempting to ignore the tingly sensation attacking his spine that something somewhere was wrong.

Yeah, you know, a normal evening for him.

But, he was Sam. Sam Winchester. And Sam Winchester had a brother named Dean. And Dean could find trouble anywhere he went. And unable to shake the feeling of unease, he had finally given in to his inner voice and nagging conscious and returned to the bar where he'd dropped Dean off earlier – and walked in on a scene straight out of the movie Roadhouse.

Well, of course Sam had had no choice but to charge right in and join the fray. Why, he hadn't minded one bit. Fisticuffs were a good outlet for pent-up anger and resentment and frustration and a good ole rounding bar fight was always good therapy.

But, all good things must come to an end and the fight had wound down and he and Dean had taken their leave. They'd patched themselves up in the car, returned to the laundromat to retrieve their clothes Sam had left in the dryer, run through the drive-thru of a local burger restaurant and had been looking for a liquor store when Dean had been hit with his first round of nausea.

The greasy burger, Dean had said.  
Second round.  
Bad fries, Dean had said.  
Third round.  
Cheap Tequila, Dean had said.

And Sam had believed him all three times as he'd watched his brother stagger away to puke in the bushes or in a ditch or behind some trashcan. They'd been leaving the liquor store when Dean had hit the pavement. Just dropped like a stone right to the ground. Plop. One second he was right next to Sam, the next Sam had been walking alone. Sam had dropped to his knees beside his brother who was conscious and shook him, snapping his neck, chin to chest so hard his eyes rolled wildly. He'd asked him repeatedly how hard he'd smacked his head, with what, how many times, where… but no matter how hard Sam shook him or held and steadied him or prayed to Cas – and now that he thought about it, what good had he thought holding his brother by the shoulders and shaking him until his teeth rattled would do? – Sam had not been able to deny Dean had suffered another concussion. Again.

So, off to the ER they had gone.

The result? Head injury. Concussion. Again. No, you dumb ass doctor. Not a sports related head injury leading to or resulting in a concussion. Did it matter? Did. It. Matter? Did it matter how Dean had come about obtaining this concussion? Had the doctor not treated other participants of the same bar fight that night? What was it with small towns in the mountains and their bred and born residents that irritated Sam so? Oh, okay, Sam hadn't been able to prevent the trip to the ER or from having tests done, but he had agreed with Dean's refusal to stay and had absconded with him the moment they'd been left alone.

Sam's immediate thought of action was to flee the area. Flee to the comfort of Rufus's cabin, but no, not with Dean seeing triple, falling over when he stood up and puking if the lights were too bright; nope, they hadn't been able to travel that far by car. And really, did they need to go anywhere? Where better to recover than right here, in wonderful isolation where being anonymous was welcome? The hospital was hours in the opposite direction of the ski resort so it was entirely unlikely they would come across the bar inhabitants they'd kicked the shit – ehrm – interacted with.

They'd fled the hospital but the fact was Dean needed healing and Cas wasn't there to heal him. And what the hell was up with Cas anyway? Even after…..how many years had it been anyway...6, 9?...years on earth, the angel still had issues with an ordinary cell phone a three-year old could operate. Oh, he'd heard Sam praying, had responded and was on his way, but he had no id, no driver's license and limited powers, so mind controlling an airline employee to turn a blind eye and allow him to board a flight to bum-buck town somewhere in Oregon wasn't a viable option.

Sam snorted, nope, _that_ wasn't an option, but finding them a cabin and a job was. Would he ever understand? Probably not.

Nope, Cas had to drive and could there be a further distance then the miles between the east and west coasts and still remain on the great 48? Probably not, for their wayward guardian angel was, again, in fucking _Maine_. Well, no. If Sam were able to think coherently and rationally, total distance apart would undoubtedly be Florida to the state of Washington. Right? Because Alaska didn't count. It wasn't one of the great 48, because you had to drive through Canada and…*sigh*…what the hell was he thinking?

So, here they were. Bruised but not broken. Hurt, but not critically. Least, Sam didn't think so. Okay, yeah Dean was…well…..it wasn't anything Cas couldn't heal. Hell, a doctor could fix it, time would fix it. The dumb quack at the ER had said so while verbally berating Sam for simply slapping a Band-Aid on a cut that quite clearly, to anyone with medical training, required stitching. Dean had been seen, diagnosed, treated and they had fled. Had the head injury been serious – well, it was….but not surgery-was-needed-serious – Dean would have stayed in the hospital until Cas could arrive. Though it was another concussion, it wasn't bleeding-on-a-swollen-brain-applying-pressure-to-the-skull kind of concussion, so here they were.

Again. Eh, was he repeating himself? Maybe. He thought so. Didn't know for sure.

Oh, how the doctor had droned on and on and on: too many concussions suffered in too short a time period; extended length of recovery; effect every day activities; poor coordination; slow reflexes; headaches; sensitivity to light and sound and smell…..hell Sam _already_ knew all that! He'd been through this before. More than once! The doctor could make all the promises and assurances and diagnosis's he wanted, but Sam wouldn't be content that Dean was in fact, truly ok, until Cas arrived, made him so and told Sam everything was fine.

'Cause, see, the thing was, Dean couldn't die. Not that he was in any immediate danger of doing so, but still, why take unnecessary chances? Neither of them could die before they fixed the 'void' or 'black hole' or the 'forever nothingness'. Whatever the hell it was or what it was called, it was something else they had broken or caused and had added to their 'bucket list' to fix.

Well….Sam pushed his hair back, holding his hands together atop his head as he warmed his backside by the comfort of the fire. That was his fault. This was his fault. Everything was his fault. Always his fault. Course, he was the only who thought that, but still….

"Hey." Dean yawned, stumbling into the living area from one of the two bedrooms. They were on opposite ends of the living space that was living room/kitchen/dining area all in one. Say, ah Sam? Yeah buddy, you're rethinking the same things again.

"You're up." Sam said surprised. He glanced at his watch. Huh. "Thought you'd sleep awhile."

"Mmmm." Dean rubbed his temple over his right eye. "Tired of sleeping." he supported his weight with one palm against the wall and raised the opposite arm over his head to stretch. That done, he switched arms and stretched again then rubbed at his forehead, wincing when his fingers made contact with his 'boo-boo'. "Seems it's all I do." his words, while slurred, were pronounced individually.

"Don't do that." Sam scolded automatically. Seeing Dean touch the neat row of stitches under the butterfly Band-Aid made him cringe, the set-down from the crabby ER doctor still ringing in his ears. The little white adhesive strip did not hide the red, swollen skin all puffy and severely discolored. The puffiness made his head lopsided, the opposite eye being black not a balance.

"Still snowing?" he kicked at the pile of wet clothes Sam had dumped by the door. "Hang it up, it'll dry better."

"Huh? Oh, yeah. You hungry? Can heat some soup." he swallowed hard. Of all things Dean could wear, he had to pick a hoodie? Really? Did he not know what seeing him in one did to Sam? The visions a hoodie caused? Dean's colorless face? The shadowed eyes after electrocution? Another fucking hospital bed? Faith healers and reapers? Yeah, those sights! Damn hoodie. He shuddered, shaking off the images. "Or chicken pot pie sound better?"

Dean shook his head, wincing when he tilted it back too much and the room spun, knocking him off balance and making him sway, steadying only when Sam reached and took hold of his elbow. Sam hesitated when Dean tensed, but Dean didn't shake him off and allowed the hold and support to guide him over to the sofa.

"You chop more wood?" Dean gazed around the room, eyes moving slowly. None of it - slurred speech, shaky balance, slow eye movement - made Sam happy.

"Fires take a lot of wood." he didn't add it was winter and their only source of heat. Dean was well aware of that. Well, he should be anyway. Not only did the cabin have the open fireplace in the living area, there was also a small woodstove in each bedroom. Not that it really mattered because Sam had no intention of lighting and keeping lit, a fire in either stove. Nope, he was a firm believer that sleeping in an unheated or under heated bedroom was healthier. But, he was blessed with Dean for a brother, so yeah. Yeah, best to have an ample supply of woodstove sized logs just in case that brother took a chill and the room needed additional heat other than what trickled in from the living room if the door was left open. Or it grew too cold outside for the open fireplace - it was a well-known fact woodstoves provided more and better heat - to maintain a comfortable temperature within the cabin.

He used a towel to grab the handle of a pot hanging from the hook inside the fireplace and carried it over to the kitchen where he sat it on a cast iron pot holder. He needed something to do, busy, mindless work. So….

"Yeah." Dean agreed with another yawn. "Told you I'd help."

Sam paled, hands shaking as he filled a mug with hot water and added a tea bag. Last week, they'd swung axes in tandem but now...now the thought of Dean outside, in the cold, standing on snow-covered ice, repeatedly raising an axe over his head and swinging it downwards raised goosebumps on every inch of his skin and he knew from experience, it would be hours before he'd be able to shake off the chill, quell the pit in his stomach and feel warm again.

Out here, a slip of an axe could result in the loss of toes, foot, mobility or life, should the blade of an axe with the force of a grown man's swing behind it manage to nick the femoral artery…well, Dean probably wouldn't bleed out on him. After all, Sam knew a thing or two about first aid, well, not according to the hick-from-the-sticks who'd treated Dean after the bar fight, but still….

"Hey, Samsonite, where you at?" Dean snapped his fingers, rubbing at the Band-Aid with his opposite hand. "Sam?"

Sam blinked then occupied his thoughts by making a cup of tea. He dipped the tea bag several times before squeezing honey from a plastic bear-shaped bottle. Dean insisted if he was expected to eat or drink honey, it had to come from the fun bottle marketed towards children. 'Cause, duh, yeah…..it did too taste better! Sam rolled his eyes as he cut a lemon and squeezed one halve to add its juice to the mug before adding a pinch of nutmeg. Dip, dip, dip.

"Rum?" he hefted a bottle. "Or scotch?" he used the bottle in his hand to point to another sitting on the counter. When the bar was busy, Sam would tend bar as well. He couldn't fix or mix the new, fancy, latest drinks, but he could and did, open bottles, and fill mugs with draft beer. He could even do jack and coke or a screwdriver; anything simple from yesteryear. And hell, he didn't mind working the back bar; tipsy women, bangs in his eyes and a seductive grin made him great tips.

And if a half-empty bottle of hard liquor found its way into his backpack, well…it was a temporary job.

"Mmmm….." Dean continued to rub his forehead. "Rum."

"Still have a headache?"

"Yeah." he laid his head back against the sofa and let his eyes close.

So, translation: still in pain.

And nothing eased it. Not aspirin, not acetaminophen, not ibuprofen. Not Excedrin Migraine, not caffeine pills, not naproxen – which Sam was always reluctant to let Dean have because it normally made him sleep heavily and if he took too many – which was always a given because, hello, he was Dean – it raised his blood pressure. And Sam, being Sam, immediately jumped to the unlikely conclusion that his brother would suffer a heart attack or stroke or, you know, fatal intestinal bleeding.

He really should stop reading so many medical books in his spare time. Not with Dean for a brother.

Sam added a generous amount of rum to the mug, paused, then prepared a second mug for himself. Why couldn't Dean wait and suffer a concussion when Cas was present? Nooooo…not Dean. Maybe he should have ignored Dean's protests and arguments and left him in the hospital until Cas arrived, but nooooooo, he'd caved to Dean's whining and pleading, just like he always did.

"You good?" he walked over and resumed his seat in the comfy armchair he'd vacated earlier in favor of the un-comfy one by the window where he'd watched the sun set. "Hey." he set his mug on the coffee table and nudged Dean's knee. "Hot toddy."

Dean could be a one-armed blind man with two fingers on his remaining hand and he'd still have the ability to accept the offer of an alcoholic beverage with the first reach of his hand. Yup, that was a talent he would always possess. He reached for, accepted, held, raised the mug and drank without: raising his head, spilling a drop or wincing over the heat.

"Still….seeing double?" Sam asked cautiously. Dean was sleepy, groggy, dopey….whatever, and usually in that state, he was emotionally pliable.

"Uh." was the grunted reply.

So, yes.

"Light still hurt you?"

"Hum." he licked his lips, taking another sip. "This's good." the very fact that he ignored the question gave Sam his answer anyway.

Yup, light still bothered him.

Sam slumped in the chair, taking comfort from the warmth radiating from the mug cupped in his hands. If only he'd insisted on seeing the only movie – some epic love story Dean had turned his lip up over – the theatre was showing. If only he hadn't agreed to let Dean go off to a bar on his own. If only he'd argued more over Dean's lame, stupid desire for a senseless game of pool. If only he hadn't listened to Dean. If only he hadn't opted to go to the library instead of joining him for that game of senseless pool. If only he'd listened to his own tingly sensations and gone after his brother as soon as his spine started to twinge. If only he had made the decision to follow despite the order not to – Dean's unspoken plea for some alone time. If only he hadn't been _relieved_ Dean had asked for that time. If only he'd argued they find a safer looking bar. If only he hadn't harbored a desire to visit a café/coffee shop offering his favored frothy cappuccinos. If only he hadn't been delighted with the opportunity after visiting the library to indulge where he wouldn't be ridiculed for his choice of drink. If only he hadn't stopped for beer. If only….if only…if only.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wishing everyone a Happy Spring...I've been enjoying season 11 but my favorite remains season 2. I'm an odd ball...I don't really pay attention to or care about season-long myth arcs, canon trashing or character favoritism, I simply enjoy the show (though admittedly, not every episode). And a big ole shout-out and thank you to all of you who take the time to leave a review!

So, he was where? He knew who he was, who he was with, just didn't know why he was where he didn't know where was. That made sense, right? No? Huh. Oh well. Oh man, his head hurt. Again. Still. Always. He tried to think, tried to concentrate, felt the throbbing in his head increase in intensity, felt the pain explode, felt the warmth in his hands slosh and waver when his hands shook and gave up trying to sort anything out.

He wanted to….to…to lie down and snuggle into the soft, warm cushions, cuddle up with a pillow and a blanket, tuck his feet and soak up the warmth of the snap, crackling pop he identified as fire. Ha! Take that! May not know where the hell he was, but he knew a fire when he heard one.

So, why didn't he?

"…don't spill that…drink it….light bother you?"

Oh, right. The worry-wart. What the hell was up with him anyway? Something sure was. Something Dean should probably know about. And didn't. Well, he should probably set about fixing that oversight. And he would. Just as soon as he could: see, see without blurred shadows and wavering images, see straight, sit up, his head stopped hurting, he figured out where he was and why, and oh, could, you know, think.

But now – _right now_ – he really, really liked his hot toddy. It tasted good, it felt good, the mug was nice and hot in his hands and it made him all warm and woozy inside. He slurped, licking his lips as he savored the smooth taste. Was it gone? Was there more? If there was, would Sam let him have it? If there wasn't, would Sam make him another? If Sam did, would Dean be able to drink it? For lying still, head back with his eyes closed did not make the room cease spinning. Maybe the drink was that strong. Yeah, that was it. That had to be it. 'Cause if it wasn't, then he'd have to admit perhaps leaving the hospital hadn't been such a good idea. And he couldn't do that.

Sam. Would. Freak. The. Fuck. Out.

Wait, hospital? He frowned, taking another sip – or three. When had he been there? Yesterday? Last week? Days and times and order of events, he couldn't remember, yet he clearly recalled Sam getting all bent out of shape with a doctor. Hee-hee, Sam getting his comeuppance by a back-woods rustic doctor was funny. Funny indeed! By a doctor who wore his 'spectacles' half-way down his nose and constantly peered over the top of his lenses and waggled a finger in Sam's face all the while tsk-tsking and never making eye contact. Oh yeah, nope, Sam had not taken well to that at all. Hee-hee!

He groaned, the rooming spinning behind closed eye lids at an alarming rate. What had caused that sensation? Had he laughed out loud? Oh God…he honestly, truly did not feel well. Not. At. All. What the hell had hit him? And how many times? And in how many places? He had to stop getting his bell rung. That is what had happened, right? And why couldn't all concussion symptoms be the same? The same all the time? With every concussion? Or at least the same twice? Why couldn't he be blessed with Sam's skull of steel? Wait, he had a concussion? Said who?

"…leave that alone…split your head open." his hand was removed from his forehead. When had he raised it? Where was his mug? "Beer bottle or mug….something glass." Sam was saying. "Either you hit your head on the floor one of the times you so graciously graced it or someone broke a chair or pool cue over the back of your head. No matter, same result."

Aah, so that was it. Apparently, wood and glass were his enemies.

"…..Cas is on his way. Be a couple days though." was Sam _still_ talking? Would he ever shut up? "Make you feel better…..like you never had a concussion at all." nope, apparently he had a lot to say. "….gotta go through this…..but.."

His ear chose that moment to attack his head with relentless vigor. It must not like Sam's constant scolding. So, why not flee and attack he-who-bitched and leave Dean alone? Ears could get _fleas_ but they couldn't _flee_. Right? And why was he holding a conversation with himself about ears? He squirmed, feeling flushed and woozy only not in a good way this time. He idly wondered if perhaps ice would cause his ears assault to cease or at least abate. Ice was plentiful outside and were he to attempt to get up and go get some, he would be caught, verbally corrected and gently steered back to bed. Ice would soon follow. Yup, good ole Sammy would don those wet, soggy clothes, risk life and limb and venture out into the dark to break icicles off the eaves and hammer them into easily handled pieces to wrap in a towel.

Did he really want ice that bad?

Knowing Sam, and Dean did, Sam had a ready supply of ice stashed conveniently nearby. And he knew that. That he knew. Knew ice could be found outside. Knew Sam had to get dressed to go outside. Knew it was dark outside. He just didn't know why he wanted ice. Oh, no matter. On cue, his ear went numb.

"…..warm rolls? Garlic and butter…"

Voices in his head set up a clanging that made his numb ear ring. OW. He must have winced or perhaps he winced _and_ hissed because suddenly, his personal space was invaded and his chin was cupped in a warm palm. The voice no longer babbled about bread and butter but was issuing commands and orders to: hold still, open his eyes, look at this finger, don't squint, open wide, wider, focus his eyes, follow this, do that, don't do _that_ and on and on. He tried. He did. He really did. But he must have failed to accomplish every order on the list because his hands were empty and his feet were lifted as he was picked up and laid back, his head supported by a strong hand before being relinquished to the depths of a fluffy pillow.

So, this is what it felt like to be coddled. He could get used to this. He relaxed, allowing the pillows to be fluffed, the cushions beneath him plumped up and a blanket or two tossed over his legs and tucked around him. He was warm, he was comfortable and… he was in pain. He raised a hand to itch his eyebrow and while the motion was allowed, he was stopped before he'd satisfied the itch. He growled his irritation but his hand was held and gently squeezed and he accepted the gesture of comfort with a muffled sigh.

"Dean? Hey, you with me?"

His forehead was gently caressed in a smooth, slow circular motion that surprisingly soothed the itch away. He kept his eyes closed because the room still spun at an alarming speed whenever he tried to open them and he didn't need to see to trust. Besides, opening his eyes might lead to Sam stopping that feels-great massage.

"Can you hear me?"

He must have mumbled in the affirmative because the tone-of- voice, first tinged with alarm, calmed and returned to what was considered normal when Dean sick, hurt or otherwise in danger. That Dean somehow knew all this while disoriented with a pounding head, itchy forehead, numb ear and a spinning cabin was testament to how often he was in this condition with Sam as his, ehrm, nurse.

"Talk to me." Sam was saying – insisting. "Hey, hey…no. Don't pass out on me yet. Talk to me…what color is your car?"

Oh dear, Sammy was nipping too much hot toddy. Whenever he wanted to play this game, Dean felt compelled to amuse him. Sam asked for so little, what was the harm in indulging him when he got deep into his cups?

"Ebony." Dean smirked, cheek nuzzling the pillow in an attempt to move whatever was poking his cheek. He failed in his attempt but achieved his goal anyway. The pillow was adjusted and the irritating sharp point on the _pillow_ was gone. Yeah, that made sense, but whatever.

"Where do we live?"

"On the road." his head was held still, a warm palm on each cheek, and a firm finger pried open one eyelid at a time. He tried to duck, to flinch away, to close his eye but the hold on his head was secure. "Wh'cha doin?"

"What year is it?"

Dean clenched his teeth. He was tired of this game after, like what, the 5th or 6th question? Really Sam? Really?! Sam needed to find something else to do. Well, Dean could be stubborn to when he felt like it and not everything was always – all about Sam.

"Dean?" Sam paused but Dean didn't respond. He gave Dean's head a very gentle shake…..nothing. He tried not to panic, tried not to jump to conclusions, wondered why, when his heart ached, it hurt in the pit of his stomach. What was up with that?

Come on Cas! Once he laid eyes on the angel, he'd be damned if he let him out of his sight! There was no cell reception at the cabin, they had to drive to town, but there was internet via a mobile hotspot and the last time Sam had checked, there'd been no emails from Cas, who must be, where by now? Ohio maybe? Least angels didn't need sleep, food or bathroom breaks. Only the need for gas for the car and traffic would delay Cas's progress.

Dean was in pain. Sam knew that, both by his breathing and the tense set of his mouth. He usually could count on the lines and creases around his brother's eyes to give lie to Dean's instance he was fine, but not this time. Not with one eye black and the other swollen and distorted from the pull of the stitches. He knew it was best to just let Dean sleep, had the assurance from the quack at what served as the hospital in these parts that, given time, Dean would be fine but yet, he just couldn't let go of the fear Dean's 'healing rest' could become, without warning and even though there were no expectations of it happening, a coma.

So he sat on the varnished-smooth tree stump that served as the coffee table and watched his brother sleep. He reached out every few minutes to give Dean a shake and tickled him until Dean snuffled or wrinkled his nose or darted his tongue out to lick at his lips; any sign that he hadn't slipped into a coma. Not that that was an immediate concern, but Sam was Sam and he worried and fussed and always mentally went, what if.

Finally feeling comfortable leaving Dean asleep on the couch, Sam got up to pick up his wet clothes. He hung his coat, hat and gloves by the fire to dry and put the muddy clothes in a wash bin in the small room that served as the 'bathroom' but was in fact, the size of a coat closet. All it consisted of was the compost toilet and camp shower. The floor cleaned of any remaining mud or melted snow, he then heated some soup, sliced some bread, chunked some cheese and sat down at the table across the room to eat. Since Dean still slept after he'd washed his few dishes, he remained at the table with a fully charged laptop and searched for Cas's location via his cell phone GPS.

***000***

Dean woke slowly, disoriented and flat-out confused. He remained still and waited – for how long, he didn't know – but the disorientation and confusion refused to abate and he didn't fight to know anything more. When he next awoke, came to, gained consciousness, became aware, whatever, he was…..well…he didn't know what. He stretched carefully, knowing somehow he wasn't in a bed yet not knowing where he was. His head hurt but he was warm and comfortable and Sam was somewhere nearby worrying and obsessing and whatever the situation was, it was under control. Sam would have seen to it.

He gingerly massaged his aching temple. Oh, right, stitches. Okay, so maybe, don't rub so hard. He tried to yawn, jaw cracking when pain shot through his head and he instinctively attempted to abort the action. Right, not a good idea. His skin was tight and drawn so yeah, keep your mouth closed, dumb ass. He didn't think he had made any kind of noise but apparently he had, for the area and space to his right was now occupied by a huge shadow that didn't flicker, but wavered, floated….hovered, waited.

He hated being sick or hurt. Wasn't used to feeling either much these days, not with Cas and his healing touch usually around. But, well…..maybe he was getting slow and soft, too many burgers and fries. Maybe if his diet consisted of lettuce and kale he'd be faster on his feet and the next kid who wandered where he shouldn't be, wouldn't end up dead. If only he'd been quicker, more alert. If only he'd been more attentive. If only he'd had a better understanding what they were up against. If only he were…..

Pain exploded, derailing his train of thought and he welcomed the distraction. Recent past events were hazy. Knowledge of current circumstances was non-existent. But some things just were. Were always known. Were a constant in his life. He didn't lift his head, didn't even try, just rolled instinctively to his side that faced the floor and lost what little of the toddy he'd managed to drink to the pail that sat perfectly in the right place on the floor next to the sofa. He stayed on his side, arm folded beneath his head with his cheek resting on his hand. Maybe he shouldn't think about those recent past events if such thoughts made him sick to his stomach. Literally.

The shadow moved, there was a swish of air, a soft touch atop his head and the offending odor wafting from beneath his nose was gone. A soft plunk and the subtle scent of lavender alerted him that the pail had been replaced with a clean one. Only Sam would find a way to instantly clean dishes in a remote cabin, in some mountain range Dean didn't know, in a state he couldn't name, that lacked electricity.

Not that Dean minded the scent, he didn't. Lavender was soothing and had a calming effect on both his soul and his traitorous stomach. Lavender always reminded him of old Maggie. Oh, she was gruff and abrupt, and she fussed and complained, but she never threw him out. And he'd given her plenty of reason to. He'd ruined her rose bushes, broke her antique coffee table, caused quite the disturbance in her neighborhood, introduced her to motels with carpet-bearing-roaches, bled on her, shot at her…..okay, so nope…..not bad, sad thoughts causing his stomach to roil and rebel.

Again, the soiled pail was removed and another took its place. Again, a hand brushed over his forehead. The blanket over his legs was adjusted and a plastic cup of water with a convenient handle and straw was placed on the coffee table. It wasn't offered, he wasn't ready to lift his head and that was known. It was within easy reach for when he was, and should he fumble and drop it, nothing would break and his bare feet wouldn't be cut on the broken pieces of glass.

Sam had vast past experience from which he had learned to avoid those kinds of mistakes.

Easing ever-so-slowly onto his back, his stomach for the time being content to keep any remaining contents, he let the darkness settle. When it was no longer moving, he risked opening both eyes at once. The room was dim and shapes were either blurry or appeared with a second image that was distorted and warped making identification of anything he was seeing impossible. The wavering, flicking firelight didn't help either.

He lay for a bit, opening and closing his eyes on and off, waiting to see if his vision would clear and his head would cease its relentless throbbing. He had no idea how much time had passed, thought maybe he had dozed off for a good while, but finally the room was in focus, the cabin no longer spun with abandoned speed and he was…..hungry.

And how Sam knew all that, Dean had no idea, but he did.

"Some warm bread?" Sam was all of a sudden sitting on the tree stump, how and when he'd gotten there, Dean didn't know. Or maybe he did, the shadow now gone and all. "Baked by a baker somewhere and freshly purchased at the local store." he offered a thick slice with partially melted butter. "Honey wheat."

Dean thought about it then carefully pushed up until he was sitting and accepted the mouth-watering offer. He didn't move his legs off the couch, just pulled his knees close to his chest and balanced the paper plate on them. He took the napkin and laid his head back, the sofa cushion just the right height to support it and keep his chin from repeatedly bobbing forward.

"Tea?" Sam offered. "Or hot cocoa?"

"Sure." he didn't specify but Sam knew he agreed to the hot cocoa and Sam knew he liked it with lots and lots of mini marshmallows. "Aspirin?"

"Tomorrow." Sam promised. "Okay?"

"Time is it?" how many times had he asked and been denied? Been told tomorrow? How many tomorrow's had passed with no delivery of aspirin? He took a bite of the warm-nothing-had-ever-tasted-so-good-as-this-bread-right-here then paused in his chewing. Wait a minute! He had taken aspirin! And ibuprofen. And a-ce-aceta-acetamin-Tylenol. He frowned, chewing and thinking, he'd even begged – _begged_ – for Aleve and it had been granted. Wow, how fucked up was he that Sam had consented to allowing him Aleve. Hell, he'd taken all kinds of pills and not only had Sam allowed him to, Sam had been the one to produce and give them to him. Oh-oh.

"Bit after six."

How come he could remember taking pills; more than one kind, their shapes, their colors, the quantity but he couldn't remember what Sam had just said nor understand what it might have meant. He didn't know what day it was either. Or what time. He thought about asking how many days had passed since he'd had his wits scrambled but….. well, he didn't really care. And he wouldn't remember any answer he received anyway. Somewhere in the mess that was his brain, he rationalized Sam usually went somewhere – probably on weekends – since they'd come to roost where ever the hell they were but since they'd come 'home' from what he was sure had been the hospital, Sam hadn't left him alone other than to venture outside and chop wood.

Right?

So either, the weekend hadn't rolled around yet or he was too fucked up for Sam to leave alone for any length of time. Sam might be willing to let Dean out of his sight, but in no way had Sam let the _cabin_ out of his sight. Aah, well….eventually shit would come back to him and Sam would be less clingy and….

"Another slice?"

He automatically reached for it, having no idea if he'd finished the first piece or if he'd somehow mangled it beyond consumption. Whatever. He thought about asking for a bath. Not because he wanted one, but because despite their isolated location, lack of indoor plumbing, running water or electricity, were he to ask, Sam would unearth a bathtub, even it were a hipbath, from the shed or root cellar or where ever the hell a tub was produced from in the depths of bumfucknowhere, lug water two pails at a time from the stream, heat it and fill the tub so Dean could have his bath.

Nah, he'd save that for later, when he was feeling better and could enjoy making Sam do all that work. His eyebrows met in thought: no, his chances of getting the bath now were he to ask for it, when he couldn't say what 2 + 2 equaled, when Sam was all soft looks and tender handling, was one-hundred-percent guaranteed. Later, when Dean was no longer all fucked up, Sam would roll his eyes, flip him off and return to the book his nose would be in.

He licked butter, nibbled bread, chewed crust. Where was his cocoa?

"I hear rain?" was the roof tin? Metal? "Roof tin?" sure made a lot of noise. Pat, pat, pitter-patter, pat, ping, ping, pat, pitter-pat.

Sam bit his lip, heart beginning to thud. It was snowing and snow hitting the roof _did not_ make any noise.

"Look at me!" he ordered. The warm gooey slice of bread was swept from Dean's hands. He squawked in protest but it was not returned. Apparently Sam did not care Dean had been mid-bite. His hands both free, he raised one to rub at his forehead and itch his temple. "Don't. Do. That." his hand was smacked down then held, his fingers squeezed.

Dean blinked at the inpatient tone, drew his eyebrows together, winced when the stitches pulled tight and pulled a pout. What had he done wrong now? Why couldn't he be left alone and allowed to eat his bread? And _where_ the fuck was his damn hot cocoa?

"You hear rain?" Sam asked faintly.

Dean stared at him blankly. He blinked. His eyes rolled. They worked independently of one another. They wandered. They didn't focus. They widened. They narrowed. They closed. They opened. They remained uneven. What they didn't do, was remain still or settle.

And Sam panicked.

His hands grappled at thin air, reaching, grasping, waving frantically. He gasped, panting, mouth open, his breath having deserted him on the 8th floor of his 100 floor climb. And Dean looked at him like…well, like he'd gone and done something, you know, weird or stupid. But Sam, too stricken to notice Dean had pulled his eyes into focus and was actually looking right at him, continued to flap about with wild abandon, desperately reaching, grasping, in search of ….well, something.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Dean demanded incredulously, aching, itchy head forgotten.

His escaped heart – having taken flight upon Dean's revelation he heard rain falling on a tin roof when it was snow falling on a snow-covered shingled roof – finally recaptured, Sam clasped his hands together and held them against his pounding chest to replace the traitorous organ, pressing tight until he could once again breathe through his nose. Calm demeanor restored, his chest no longer heaving, his breath no longer coming in short, rapid pants, he turned his attention to his brother but the only thing Dean was interested in was the immediate delivery of the promised and much desired hot cocoa, not Sam's panic attack, recovery or desire to see his injured sibling's eyes alert and focused.

"Where's my cocoa?" Dean groused, itching once again. "Don't forget the marshmallows either."

It was Sam's turn to blink and stare blankly.

"What?" Dean asked innocently. "What'd I do?"

Sam mindlessly returned the half eaten second slice of bread to his brother and got up to go make a cup of instant hot cocoa. His emotions couldn't take this yo-yoing back and forth. Knowing – having been told medically – that Dean would be fine, given time, made no god-damn difference to Sam when Dean wouldn't wake up or slept too soundly or his eyes wouldn't obey a simple command or he became confused and disoriented. Not in their life. No Fucking Way. And Sam was repeating himself – again.

His back to the sofa, he removed a package of cocoa from the box, tore it open, dumped the contents into a mug, added hot water from the pan he kept on a hook in the fireplace, stirred, added a Sam Winchester hand-sized amount of mini-marshmallows – so, half the bag – and returned to the sofa to find Dean once again asleep. And he'd only been mere minutes. Sam stood next to the sofa, mug in hand, chewing on his lip.

Oh no he didn't.

"Dean?" he plopped his ass on the tree stump, held the mug in one hand and shook Dean with the other until his brother at last stirred, moving in protest. "Hey, wake up. Got your cocoa."

"Don't like cocoa…nut." he muttered. "Can't chew….it."

Sam sighed, rubbing his forehead, too tired and stressed and tense to even attempt to make sense of Dean's sleep-riddled babbling. He left off shaking Sir Grumpy and teased him into rousing and accepting the offered mug. Dean hadn't lain back down, had just dropped his head back against the back of the sofa, so there wasn't much rousing to be done. His knees were still raised and were just the right height to balance the mug.

Yeah, Sam in no way trusted _that_ and reached out to take it back. Dean slapped his hands away and held it protectively with both hands close to his chest, stretching his legs out. His head, suddenly too heavy to hold up, flopped back against the sofa and Sam sent a silent prayer to whoever that the sofa had neither a wood or hard frame.

"Hey." he said quietly, reaching out to tug the blanket free, shake it out and tuck it back over Dean's legs. "You with me?"

"Guess." Dean said tiredly, eyes closed. "Gotta be."

"No." Sam admitted. "Just rather you were is all."

"We gotta go? Got a lead?" he yawned lazily. "A hunt?"

"No."

"Mmmm." he licked his lips, sniffing and Sam reoffered him the mug. "So, can I sleep?"

"Yeah, sure." Sam said thickly. "If….that's what you wanna do."

"Goin' to work?" he frowned over the last word. Work, ha! "That's right, right? Work? You have a job? A non-hunting kind of job? Sammy's going to work. Sammy has a job." he was holding a conversation with himself and Sam didn't know whether to be amused or alarmed. "Wwwwoooorrrrkkkkk."

"Drink your cocoa." Sam ordered.

Dean obeyed. But he could see Sam's mind working, thinking, planning, plotting. And oh boy, he didn't like that look at all. If only he could read Sammy's mind. If only he knew what the little prick was thinking. If only...…oh no…..no…..NO! He would NOT be going to work with Sam. Nuh-uh. No way. Not a chance in hell. Nope.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ugh...hot-humid-hazy-sticky-stuck-in-the-house-with-a/c-with-no-gumption-or-desire-to-do-anything-because-I-hate-summer-weather. Have never liked it, will never like it. Maryland and its stupid 'dew points'!
> 
> Come on Fall! You, I love! Pretty trees with colorful leafs, fresh apple cider and concord grapes, hoodies and fuzzy socks, mums and pumpkins and gourds and hay stalks...sitting around the backyard chiminea roasting marshmallows...the squirrels gathering acorns and changing color with their winter fur growing in...Aah...my favorite season!

* * *

 

He'd dozed off. He must have. So, why did he feel worse now than how he thought he'd felt before he'd taken the nap he wasn't sure he'd taken? He blinked and squinted and scrunched his nose until finally, the eyelid on his non-black eye parted ways with his bottom lashes. Okay, so eye open but nope, still couldn't see. Ugh, he didn't feel well at all. What had happened to him again? Think….think….come on Dean, think. Okay, yeah, so let's see…..oh right…yeah, nope, he had nothing. Well no, that wasn't true. The lingering effects of the nap - or his fainting spell - whichever, were fading away and his ability to somewhat think was returning. Cas was on his way – and taking his sweet ole time getting there – to heal, aah, erh, erhm, huh, right – his latest concussion. And had Cas been coming before the concussion or had he been summoned by Sam after the bar fight? Huh, he didn't know. Okay, so if he'd had his brains scrambled – again – why did he hurt all over?

Unable to see clearly through the slit-opening of one eye, what blurry, shimmering images managed to flicker into his line of sight was not at all encouraging. He remained still, waiting, searching, feeling…..but visually, yeah, he gained nothing. His hearing and sense of smell rarely let him down and neither did this time either:

Fire – a welcoming source of heat, because he was cold. He should move closer.  
Breathing – someone was snoring. He should wake them up and ask for another blanket.  
Beef – most likely dinner for whoever was snoring. He should go get a bowl, his stomach was growling.

Finally, he was able to open his one eye wider and the wavering, dim view of the room gradually came into focus; the rustic cabin in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. Right, so that meant…Sam was the one snoring. 'Cept, no, Sam didn't snore unless….Dean sighed. Unless he was sick with a cold or stressed and tense and so tired he hadn't been sleeping well and that didn't ever happen unless….unless he was worried about Dean.

Yeah, okay, so great. Why worry about him? Hell, he was fine!

Gathering his resolve and digging deep to draw on the age-old need to defend and protect his priority in life, he gathered his strength, forced opened both eyes and sat up, head held between his hands as he swung his feet to the floor and rested his elbows on his knees and waited for the room to settle around him.

Huh. Well, look at that. He was out in what served as the living room. When had he come out here and why? The fireplace probably. He did like to be comfortable and warmth defined comfort. The room finally still, his head clear, his eyes focused, his stomach settled, he pushed to his feet and padded over to stoke the fire and add a log or two. Sam, sprawled in an old armchair with the foot rest up near the fireplace, stirred as the flames flared to life but didn't awaken.

His eye, though not swollen shut completely, refused to remain open so he gave up trying to make it do so, allowed time to adjust to seeing with only one eye and crossed over to the kitchenette where he sat down at the table with an apple. He figured he probably should be doing….well, something, but he couldn't think of what. He thought they should probably be somewhere else….but he didn't know where. There was probably someone they should be helping or something they should be hunting…but he didn't know who or what. And since when did he eat apples? He had a thing with apples….something about…..well, something. He finished eating around the core then tossed it into the trash.

Why were they at this cabin?  
How long had they been there?  
How did they get there?  
Where was there?  
Whose cabin was it?  
How had they found it?  
Why didn't they leave?

Still hungry, his hunger not at all sated by the apple, he unwrapped the loaf of bread and, not finding a knife nearby, bit off a chunk. It begged for butter but dribbled with honey squirted from the bear-shaped bottle sufficed. He got such a kick out of those bottles. And though Sam fussed and carried on about how those bottles contained less honey yet cost more than larger, plain bottles, there was always a made-for-kids bottle on the bunkers pantry shelf. Maybe Sam bought honey, brought it home and refilled the bear-bottle, Dean neither knew nor cared. His honey came out of a bear-shaped bottle, therefore it tasted better.

Dean smiled, wincing over the tight pull of his swollen eye, split lip and itchy stitches. Odd, he must be feeling better because he hadn't felt such irritations the last time he'd been awake. And how fucked up was his life that that made sense? He spied a bottle of some kind of pain relief, scowled over the fact they were most likely over-the-counter yet helped himself to three tablets anyway, downing them with a glass of water before visiting the bathroom and returning to bed in the bedroom. He knew it was his because the bed wasn't made and the pillows were strewn every which way. Hum, chillier in here but the quilts were plentiful and warm and he was soon asleep.

***000***

Sam woke the next morning near 7 a.m. with a snort, stretching gingerly but other than a sore neck, he suffered no ill effects from sleeping in a too-small recliner. The room was cool, the fire having died down, but not yet cold. Yawning, he got up to stir the embers and add a log, noting Dean must have added wood not all that long ago. He added another before setting aside larger pieces to toss in once the flames licked higher.

"Dean?" he yawned, padding across the room to retrieve the kettle. "Hey? You want coffee?" he added water from a pail and returned to hang the kettle on the hook in the fireplace. Neither brother preferred instant coffee but who didn't prefer it over no coffee at all? Well, he could percolate it, but he didn't feel like waiting any longer than it would take to boil water.

Huh, water supply was getting low. He'd have to make a trek down to the stream for more. He could just melt snow, but…nah. Anyway, bacon for breakfast sounded great and there were several pounds in the stream which meant…they'd probably be frozen. Damn. Well, okay, eggs and sausage patties then.

"Dean? You awake? Hey." kettle of water hung to boil, fire stoked, logs added, fire looming to soon bring welcoming warmth, Sam headed back to the bedroom that Dean had claimed as his. "De….." he sighed, biting his cheek in irritation. Sure, right, course not. Why would be expect to find his brother in bed when just yesterday, Dean had been actively, you know, wandering.

He wasn't in the cabin, of that Sam was sure. So, either he'd gone out to the outhouse or down to the stream. Sam swore if the dumb ass had gone in search of the beer Sam had left in the Impala….Oh. Oh. No. Oh, there he was. Sam glared out the window as if the pane of glass had done him some grievance. There was Dean, picking through the snow-covered wood pile and stacking select pieces in his arms. Okay, sure, he wasn't using the axe but still, it was icy outside and the snow in some places was deep and if Dean happened to step off the path…..

Sam stomped across the room and flung the door open. "DEAN!" he was so intent on voicing his displeasure he momentarily forgot Dean might not completely have control of his mental wits or coordination.

The banging of the door against the wall of the cabin and Sam's bellow startled Dean so badly, he first ran in one direction, then the other, then stopped abruptly, slipped on the ice, fell, gained his feet only, lost control of his balance and teetered badly, right leg sliding right with a violent jerk while his left remained stationary. That caused him to go down on his left knee and his right leg buckled and twisted before righting itself. He then was able to push to both feet in preparation to once again run.

And run he did. First one way, then the other, arms still clutching their load of wood. And repeat.

Sam was stunned. He watched the spectacle play out in front of him first in disbelief then in amusement. He chuckled when Dean played chicken with a tree, laughed outright when the _tree_ won and Dean greeted its rough bark with his nose. The logs finally parted ways from Dean's death grip and went end-over-head in every direction. Sam's amusement increased when Dean decided he just had to retrieve each and every one! Sam watched his confused and disoriented brother dart and dash, scoop and hug each piece of wood he managed to collect only to drop two in the process.

Okay, ok, time to put a stop to whatever the hell Dean thought he was doing before he hurt himself.

Too late.

With a yelp, Dean came up hobbling, every log of wood in his arms flung helter-skelter as he hobbled over to a tree to lean his weight against it. He lifted his foot, used the same hand to try and hold first his toes, then his calf. Sam sobered but didn't panic. At worst, all Dean had done was pull a muscle and come up lame.

"HEY!" Sam bellowed, off the porched and across the front clearing when Dean attempted to hold his foot with both hands and hop on his other leg. "What the hell you trying to do?" Sam gave Dean a supportive shoulder. He shivered, feeling the bite of the cold through his flannel shirt. He hadn't come outside with a coat. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Dean muttered, voice tight with undisguised pain. "Damn."

"What'd you pull?" Sam pulled him close, staggering a bit under his weight before regaining his balance.

"Calf." Dean slung an arm around Sam's neck and allowed himself to be led back to the warmth of the cabin. Yeah, he could easily walk on his own but he knew from experience to keep as much weight as possible off his leg for the immediate future. He'd injured the calf muscle severely years ago and while it had healed without surgery, once the muscle had re-attached to the tendon, his calf was shorter than it had been prior to the injury, leaving him prone to repeat injury.

Hey, maybe Cas could fix that too! If the slow-poke ever arrived. Where the hell was he anyway?

"Right leg?" Sam guessed. "What the fuck were you doing outside?"

"Wood." Dean said simply. "You said fires take a lot of wood."

Well, he had. Sam couldn't argue with that.

"Yeah." Sam agreed. "Come on, let's go get you taken care of." well, if nothing else, pain had brought Dean up clear-headed. "Another day of rest coming your way."

"Man, this sucks." Dean sighed as they entered the cabin and he collapsed onto the couch. "That coffee I smell?"

"Boiling water." Sam corrected. "Well, least we ain't like we're here for the skiing." he teased. "Feeling better today?"

"Guess." Dean shrugged. "Is it going to be coffee soon?" he raised his foot to rest his heel on the funky looking coffee table. "Day is it anyway? Don't you work or something?"

"You want anything to eat?" Sam asked. "Just want you to sit here and stay put for a bit. Can you do that?"

Dean laid his head back and stopped listening. The fires warmth felt good and yeah, he was hungry, so sure Sammy, he'd love some breakfast.

Sam let Dean fade out and set about getting his brother comfortable and breakfast started. He soon had Dean settled with his calf snugly wrapped, his foot elevated with his leg resting comfortably on a bag of snow covered with a towel. Dean ate the breakfast Sam set in front of him and Sam was sure he ate it because he didn't want to be denied the desperately wanted ibuprofen if he didn't.

"You bruise….." Sir Sam was yakking. "We aren't waiting for Cas."

Whatever.

"…and don't go trying to hide if you're in pain…" continued Samantha. "…..cause I'll know if you do."

Oh geez, he was still going on.

"Here."

Aah, finally. The delivery of ibuprofen. Funny how his head ceased to hurt, the stitches stopped itching and his eye no longer throbbed when his calf burned like a mother humper.

***000***

"So, hey, what do you think his story is?" Lulu, a waitress at the ski resort where Sam was temporarily working, plopped her tray on the bar while she waited for Derek, the bartender, to fill her order. "Kinda mysterious, don't ya think?"

Derek rolled his eyes as Lulu popped a bubble. "Sam? About as mysterious as your real name." he retorted. "Go easy princess." he warned. "You have a league, and he ain't in it."

She wrinkled her pert nose and paid him no attention. "I mean, he comes from nowhere and he doesn't talk about himself or his family or _anything_ and…."

"He's too old for you." Derek interrupted. "His experience in life is way beyond you."

"Hey!" she protested. "I'm 19!"

"…in 6 months." he finished for her. "Is this on ice?"

"What? Oh, the drink. Yeah." she was silent for a moment then brightened. "Okay, I'm 18." she admitted. "But legal." she waved her hand triumphantly. "So…..HA!"

Derek grabbed a clean mug and filled it from the tap. "Lulu, stay away from him." he warned. "You couldn't handle him. He's not the type to mess around with girls who still decorate the back windshield of their car with stuffed animals." he added the mug to her tray, setting it next to the mixed drink on ice. "He has family. His brother is in law enforcement and I get the feeling he means military. He got hurt and they're here while he recovers."

"There's two of them?" she perked right up. "Really? Here in town? Right now? Like….I mean….here? Now? Ooohhhh!" she moaned dreamily. "How awesome is that? Taking care of your brother. Setting aside your own wants and needs – your life – to see to the needs of your brother – a war hero." she moaned breathlessly, causing Derek's eyebrows to meet his hair line. Now where had she gone and gotten _that_ idea? "Probably PSTD. I just know it! Oh, the poor man! How sad!" she clicked her tongue sympathetically. "And all that on top of his looks and manners and buff bod." she saw Derek's look of irritation. "Not that I've seen it, but I _know_ …I just dooo..oooo."

"Lulu!" Derek plunked a glass down with a sharp clink. "It's not like that. This is life. It's not all ski boots and furry hats." he hadn't had to warn Sam to stay away from the waitresses. He'd known the moment they'd met that Sam wasn't the type to engage in any kind of activities with such a young crowd. "Don't bother him. He's just passing through, so leave him alone."

"Fine." she huffed. "Fine. Can I ogle from across the room?"

Derek relented and gave her a smile. "That you can do. You can flirt….." he winked. "…..harmlessly. Like you're fourteen." he added in a fatherly tone. "You're a good girl Lulu, he knows that."

She hefted her loaded tray onto the palm of one hand, popped another bubble and twirled around to sashay away only to find her way blocked by an immovable wall that didn't automatically step out of her way. Momentarily stunned, for most people uttered an apology and either steadied the person they nearly mowed down or gave way, it took her a moment to recover and realize this wall was not going to move for her.

"Uh, um!" she stammered, looking him up and down, up and down and up. "Hull-lo." she recovered and drawled appreciatively. "Huh, hi ya." her scattered wits gathered, she forgot about his rude behavior and gave him a saucy smile. "Haven't seen you in here before."

"Dean!" Sam pushed between them, tone laced with exasperation. "I told you to find a _booth,_ not a _boob!_ Hey Lulu." he greeted with a soft smile. "Derek."

"Heya Sam." Lulu stepped to one side of Sam and allowed her gaze to continue wandering appreciatively up and down Dean. "You're late. Didn't know if you'd be in tonight." she beamed up at Sam, curiosity all over her face. "Good to see ya." her eyes went right back to Dean. "Is this your brother?"

"Sam." Derek leaned across the bar to shake hands. "Told you not to worry about tonight. It's only Thursday." he wouldn't say it out loud, but he was relieved to see Sam. Thursday's were normally slow nights but there was a crowd of rowdy vacationers partying in the bar and Sam was a darn good bouncer should things unexpectedly get out of hand.

"You didn't come in to quit, did you?" Lulu asked suspiciously with a pouty frown. "Not yet!" she wailed over-dramatically. "Is that why he's here with you? It's not, is it? It's too soon. Grif won't be back for a couple more weeks."

"No, no." Sam assured her. "I'll be here until Grif is able to return to work."

"I'm hungry." Dean complained. "Gimme something to eat."

"Go find somewhere to sit." Sam waved his brother off. "Hey!" he called after Dean's retreating back. "STAY AWAY from the pool tables."

Dean flipped him off and Sam let him go, walking around the bar to shed his coat and roll up his shirt sleeves. Oh yeah, he wasn't above showing off his forearms if it gained him an extra dollar in tips. An injured, bored Dean wasn't cheap to keep.

"So, your brother huh?" Derek said. "Nice shiner. Stitches?"

"Yeah." he sighed, threading his fingers through his hair. "Bar fight." he shrugged his shoulders with a sheepish grin. "Lulu, he can have beer but no liquor. He'll order it but just take him a draft, okay? Thanks." he hadn't been able to shake off the thoughts that had gone through his head when faced with leaving Dean, feeling better yet with a limp, home alone at the cabin. Stray, random thoughts such as: Dean gleefully playing with fire, using an axe, carrying wood, risking a trip to the outhouse or the stream to seek out cold beer – a bored Dean was a Dean who found ways to amuse himself and Sam easily envisioned him breaking a leg this time rather than pulling a muscle or falling in the stream or getting lost on his way back to the cabin - or Christ, burning it down. He'd handed Dean his gun but he hadn't been able to hold it steady and that had been the deciding factor that made Sam choose not to leave him home alone.

But, oh no. Dean had not wanted to tag along with Sam to work, which was why Sam was two hours late; partly because of the ensuing argument after Sam's declaration and partly because Sam wouldn't have to put up with a pouting, sulking Dean at the bar from open to close. Not that two hours made that much of a difference but should Dean get tired or cranky – both of which were likely to happen – there was a cot in the storage room behind the office where he could take a nap. And hadn't that little bribe taken some coaxing, threatening, cajoling, begging and pleading...Dean had scoffed at being able to get any sleep in a bar. Uh, yeah, sure Dean, like you can't sleep anywhere, whenever. Normally, Sam would banish him to the car but even he had to admit it was just too cold to be outside, even in the shelter of a car, for any length of time, let alone hours. So yeah, had there been no cot in a quiet room, Dean would have been allowed to remain at the cabin and Sam would have remained home with him.

"Not asking for his story." Derek was saying. "Any maybe it's not my business, but is he getting any better? 'Cause he looks shaky." he shook his head. "And that's a nasty shiner he has." he said again, digging for an answer but not willing to ask outright. "Pretty bad limp…knee?"

"He was, yeah." Sam shrugged. "Knee? Oh….oh. No, no…dumb ass decided to go outside and gather wood, slipped on the ice and reinjured his calf. He's okay. As long as he doesn't try and carry anything heavy, leg will hold his weight." the rest of Derek's words caught up to him. "We went to the movies."

Derek decided to let that comment go. "Glad to see you. I don't like that crowd of ball-busters but so far, they've kept to themselves." Derek followed Sam's gaze to the group of five playing darts, then diverted over to the table where Dean had taken a seat. "He got a gambling problem?"

"Who?" Sam asked in confusion, looking around. Derek pointed to the pool tables. "Oh, Dean? Uh, no. Well, yeah, but no." he chuckled at Derek's baffled look. "He hustles and if he's called on it, throws the first punch."

"Aah." so, Dean was the trouble maker and Sam most likely the peace keeper. Well, he just hoped Sam kept his brother out of trouble in his bar this night. "So, bar fight huh? Okay, I get you." Derek said and went to fill an order from another waitress.

Dean had slid into a booth in the corner of the bar and used a lighter to light the wick on the tabletop lantern. It didn't give off any light whatsoever but hey, ambiance and all that. So, this is where Sam went every weekend. Not a bad place. And it was a good way to get him out and about, to mingle with people until Dean was on his feet and they could return to their, well, quest. Not that Sam had ever been much of a 'mingler'. Well, maybe when he'd taken off to school, Dean didn't really know, but…nah. Not Sammy.

Not that Dean had known he was ever off his feet. Well, okay, yeah, _after_ the concussion, sure. He guessed if you looked at it that way, he still was, but before then? Naw, he'd been fine. Well, dealing, he'd been handling how he was dealing with handling the unfortunate incident with the kid, but…oh man, now his head hurt. Again.

"Shit." he sighed, thumbs massaging his eyelids into his eyebrows. "Fuck." he hissed, when the stitches pulled tight. His own fault and all that but damn, did it always have to hurt so much? And why was he feeling every little cramp, ache and pain anyway?

"Hi ya." Lulu placed both palms on the table and leaned forward. "What can I get you?" she winked and waggled her brows, but oh, this guy….he _oozed_ …manliness. He emitted mystery and romance, trouble and chaos, danger and violence. If Derek thought Sam was out of her league, what did that make _this_ guy? Here, sitting in front of her was a predator. He stalked his prey with a grace that alluded power. Why, in medieval times, he'd be a knight in shining armor. He'd fight a war riding a huge black destrier, dressed in chain mail, swinging a broadsword or claymore, which he would retrieve from a sheath on his back with one hand, a shield in his other, ruthlessly striking down foes one after the other as he charged forward into battle, the horse controlled only by the pressure of his thighs. And oh, fast forward a couple hundred of years…and he would be riding a horse that effortlessly jumped fences and out ran all other horses and he would fight duels dressed in buff breeches with either pistols or swords, for he would be efficient with both and oh, if she were ten years older….hey, just how old was he anyway?

She shook her head. She really needed to stop reading all those trashy romance novels. But really, where was the harm? Seriously, who did it hurt? They were at the local library, not like she had to sneak out and buy the books from some shady dude on a trashed street corner or dark, dank alley. Oh, she just bet her mother, the most vocal against those kinds of books had read them at some time in her life! Momma definitely read westerns…..Dean could be a model for the men on the covers; all dressed in black, silky shirts with shiny buttons and a cowboy hat, all scruffy….tight pants…..boots, gun slung low on his hip…..holster tied…she gulped...on his firm, muscular thigh...

"Menu?" he asked without much hope. Not on the top of his game, he was still absorbing the atmosphere of the bar and its patrons; the way they moved, how they stood, who they talked to…even new ones that sauntered through the door. And why the hell were people out on a night like this one anyway?

She blinked, say what? "Bar food." she replied saucily, quickly recovering. "Burger and fries?"

Right up his alley and usually, his favorite meal, but nope, not tonight. No, these days, his stomach could be traitorous without warning. "Anything not fried?" he sighed, mourning the loss of the meal he wanted but didn't dare eat.

"Pit beef."

"On a roll like a sandwich?" she nodded. "No gravy?" he asked, his mouth watering at the thought of moist, tender shredded beef. She nodded again. "With mayo?" horse radish sauce might be too spicy for him this night. Another nod. Why was she all of a sudden struck mute? "Serve it up doll."

"Side of chips?" she asked, proud she hadn't stuttered. "Anything else?" the way the word _doll_ rolled off his tongue along with that lazy look of come-hither made her tingle and giggle like the fourteen year-old Derek had referenced. Nuh-uh! 'Cause oh yeah, this guy here wasn't even in a league! "And bring a bottle." he didn't specify what he meant but she knew what he wanted. Mostly because Sam had told her his brother would want it. "Top shelf." he added, might as well spend all Sam's money.

"Sure." she beamed sunnily to hide the fact she was lying. "Be right back."

Dean settled back, cellphone in hand, and waited for his meal to arrive. Cas was somewhere in the state of Iowa and still on his way, so until he arrived, Dean had to take it easy, appease Sam and not do anything else stupid. He was still getting dirty looks, huffed sighs and every ten minutes, yet another scolding about how stupid he'd been to go and pull his calf muscle – again. But no part of those instructions resulted in his inability to search the web.

Five minutes later, he gave up. Staring at the small screen, in the dim light with the noise of the bar all around him had split his skull in two. Yow! Maybe he should skip dinner and go outside to take a nap in the car. Except it was like a hundred below zero degrees or something. He completely understood Sam's desire for isolation in a remote location but hell, couldn't he have picked some place in Florida?

"Here you go!" Lulu set a plate down in front of him, followed by a glass of what was likely watered down beer. "Beer's on the house." she said cheerily. "Anything else?" she waited, half tempted to take a seat and keep him company. If he issued such an invitation, she was going to plop right down and strike up a conversation.

He opened his mouth to question the lack of delivery of the requested whiskey then closed it without a comment. These people knew Sam and no eighteen year-old waitress would pay for 'beer on the house'.

"Ah, no. Nope, I'm good. Thanks." he shot a look of death across the room that Sam met with a cheery grin and a wave from behind the bar where he stood stacking beer into a chest cooler. "Prick." he muttered, digging a bottle of Sam-approved-headache-relief from his pocket and swallowing four. That mere five minutes spent taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi had really done a number on his poor head. Ah, well, food smelled great and despite his ever-present headache, he was starving.


	4. Chapter 4

The extreme cold and the threat of a looming storm had caused the closure of the ski slopes – now Sam wasn't much of a skier, but since when did slopes allow skiing at night anyway? – and other than activities inside the resort lodge, the only other source of entertainment within a reasonable drive was, the bar. All of which, to Sam's chagrin, led to the bar becoming crowded, loud and busy, resulting in his inability to keep as close an eye on his brother as he preferred. Sourly, he thought of the closest town, nearly an hour away in the opposite direction of their cabin, with bowling alleys and movie theatres and clubs with live music and dancing; too far away for these yuppie-yupsters to drive.

The bar offered darts, pool, couple of 1980's era video games, a pinball machine and a juke box but darn if the crowd didn't stay entertained. For the unusual large number of people in the bar, the crowd was orderly. Well, he had a moment, so…let's see…..where was Dean and what was he doing? Hopefully not anything stupid, such as engaging other patrons in darts or pool. He tossed a towel over his shoulder, braced his weight against his hands splayed on the bar and cast an experienced eye out over the crowd. Aah, there he was… playing a primitive race car video game, complete with foot pedal and steering wheel. Object of the game was to 'not crash' by avoiding slower cars and dodging pedestrians, moving to the berm to allow the ambulance to pass him while being chased by the police. Oh-oh, fire truck…Sam winced when Dean crashed into a jersey wall…..game over. Huh, well so, his coordination was still off.

"He likes that game, huh?" Derek grinned. "Gonna run me outta quarters."

"He played it for hours when we were kids." Sam turned and pulled bottles from the cooler to serve a customer. "Never crashed back then." okay, so Dean was amusing himself by himself, but still, did he have to choose a pastime with flickering lights, bells and beeps and whistles, not to mention such primitive graphics?

"Head injury." Derek reminded him, like Sam had forgotten. "One eye." he gave Sam's shoulder a pat and moved off to fill an order for Lulu.

"Hey." Dean leaned across the bar, one hand rubbing at his itchy forehead, the pull of the stitches causing him to frown. "Think I'm gonna go out to the car and crash for a bit."

"It's too cold." Sam replied. "Gimme a sec."

"You ready to go then?" Dean asked hopefully, but Sam shook his head and his face fell. "Oh."

"No." he set another bottle of beer on the bar and collected payment. "Come with me…there's a place you can lie down."

Dean didn't argue. All the noise made his head pound and his stomach roil. Maybe playing that game for so long hadn't been such a good idea. He felt like he was going to hurl and if he couldn't leave, he opted for quiet and warmth, so he followed Sam without complaint. The room turned out to be fairly isolated and surprisingly quiet, boasting a comfy cot complete with mattress, blanket and pillow. Dean waved Sam on his way, closing the door behind him after he was _finally_ able to usher him out.

"Geesch." he sat down on the cot, hesitated a moment, then removed his boots and swung his legs up onto the cot. "What am I, five?" hell, he wasn't going anywhere for a while, why not be comfortable? He used his coat over the blanket to ward off the chill and was soon asleep.

***000***

"Your brother leave?" Derek asked. The kitchen closed at midnight and he'd just come in from seeing the cook safely on his way home. "Lulu will give you a lift home, you need one." he grinned. "Kidding, I will." it was going on 1 a.m. and the crowd had dwindled significantly. He was relieved it had turned out to be a quiet night despite the large crowd and was ready to close up and head home himself.

Sam shook his head. "He went to lie down in the backroom."

"Oh, say, is he…Lulu! Hey, stay here." Derek held a finger up to tell Sam to direct his attention to what had caught his. And that would be the four who had just walked through the door – three men, one woman. "I'll get their order."

Sam turned to clear the bar of empty bottles and glasses, his gaze drifting over the room, taking note of where the late- comers had taken a seat; a table in the corner where they had all angled their chairs to face the room. Now, what the hell were they doing here? And why come in now, so close to closing? His mind sifted and sorted, considered and discarded who or what they might be. There was no reason – none at all – to assume they were there in search of him and Dean. No one knew who they were or why they were in town. And no one other than Cas knew where they were and even under torture, Cas would never reveal he knew anything. Still, the group warranted an eye being kept on them for they sure as hell weren't in town for skiing.

"Don't like the looks of them." Sam muttered, more to himself than for anyone to hear, but hear him, Derek did. "Wish Dean were still out here."

"Why's that?" Derek asked curiously. "I don't like the look of the either. And it's been a busy night." neither said it, but both thought it. Robbery.

"Dean fights. Fact that's a woman won't stop him from cold-cocking her she goes and asks for it." Sam replied and moved away.

Well, Derek huffed, he hadn't expected that answer and he didn't like it one bit. No sirree! What did it mean anyway? How could a woman 'ask for it'? What could she do to deserve a fist to the face? Utter a comment? An insult? No woman deserved to be punched in the face…ever. No matter what she said or did. He hadn't found Dean to be friendly or even pleasant to be around, but neither had he felt Dean was violent towards women. Well to be fair, he didn't know the extent of Dean's injuries or know for sure if his illness was also mental and, well – he'd only met the man for the first time that evening.

"Still." he muttered, moving off to fill the order of the late arrivals – who, by the way – did not give him a warm fuzzies either. "Doesn't need to be oh-so-matter-of-fact about it." he scooped ice. "Be all like, my brother will just knock her the fuck out she gets in my face." he reached for a bottle of liquor on the lower shelf, bending over and missing the calculating study by Sam of the group of four. "Acts like it's nothing, like he does it all the time and hey, what the hell, no big deal, right? Just a woman. That's all."

"Who are you talking to?" Lulu asked, plopping her tray on the bar. "The dart-players are ready for their tab."

Finally, Derek thought happily. When they paid up and left and that would only leave the four late-comers and a couple who had already paid their tab and would soon leave.

"Want me to take that order on my way back with the tab?" Lulu offered.

"No." Sam handed her the register bill for the dart-players. "I'll take it."

Her eyes widened and it finally dawned on her neither Derek nor Sam wanted her anywhere near _that_ table. She opened her mouth to protest or argue or disagree but was struck speechless when Sam suddenly smiled at her, letting his hair fall across his eyes.

"What don't you go see if Dean's awake? If not, wake him up, tell him we'll be leaving soon." Sam suggested. "Take him some coffee. He doesn't always wake up well so he might be grumpy."

"Coffee this late?" Derek looked over, sure enough, Sam had gone and brewed a pot of coffee. Now when had he gone and done that? "Won't it keep him awake?"

Sam snorted. "Caffeine keep Dean awake?" he had yet to confirm a motive or reason why the group of four were even there, but he was convinced they had one other than enjoying the round of drinks they'd ordered. Robbery probably. And wouldn't that just be his luck? Tonight of all nights, when he had Dean with him? Good luck or bad? Good….for there was no one he would rather have at his back than his brother. Bad…he didn't want Dean involved in physical activity at all, let alone yet another bar fight. He glanced at the clock; twenty more minutes and he could throw them out. He hefted the tray of drinks. Didn't this state believe in last call?

***000***

Dean sighed, rolling over and sitting up. The hour or so of quiet and lack of flickering lights had allowed him to relax and take a nap. He felt better and was ready to go back to the cabin. He looked at his watch. Almost 2 a.m., so they could probably leave within half an hour. Yawning, he pushed to his feet, fluffed his pillow-matted hair with his fingers and cast a glance about the room.

Only one door. Okay, so to hit the head, he must leave his cozy, quiet sanctuary. Bummer. Sighing, tempted to crash on the cot and go back to sleep until Sam came to take him home, he toed his boots. Eh, he shrugged. His bladder was begging and really, what would it hurt to pad about the bar in socks just to the bathroom and back? Maybe the back door that led outside was closer and he could just pee outside. That would save him a lecture from Sam about germs and bacteria on the floors of public bathrooms.

"Hey, you awake?" knock-knock-knock. Oh, God, go away, he thought irritably. "Hello? Brought you some coffee." knock-knock-knock.

Coffee? Dean perked up, licking his lips at the thought of hot, rich, strong coffee that wasn't instant. Need to pee forgotten, he opened the door to allow Lulu entry.

"Hi!" she greeted, relinquishing the mug before having an opportunity to offer it. Dean had it in both hands and was seated on the cot before she stepped into the room. "Uh, so…are you feeling better? Anything I can get you? Kitchen is closed, but I can make a cold meat sandwich if you're hungry?" no response, so she let it go. "Sam said you'll be able to go home soon, so stay awake."

Dean mumbled something incoherent and waved at her. She didn't know what that meant and he didn't attempt any other form of communication, so she turned to leave. The door had automatically drifted closed after her but hadn't latched, so she simply pulled it open without stepping into the doorway to leave, wanting to linger but receiving no encouragement to do so.

"Aah, well, okay then…..come on out when…." as she was talking, she stepped around the door, the doorknob still in her hand, not looking where she was going and then…. it all happened so fast! Her face was greeted with a knife coming out of thin air. She screamed, throwing her hands up and ducking, but the expected blow and its accompanying pain never came.

One second she was off-center of the now open door, the next, she was on her ass on the floor across the room and Dean was warding off the blade with his coffee mug. The ceramic mug soon shattered, forcing Dean to continue the fight with bare hands. Used to wearing long sleeves of heavy denim, Dean endured several swipes at his arms, one or two landing a shallow blow on bare skin deep enough to draw blood. Now pissed, Dean pressed for an advantage, soon knocking the knife from his attacker's hand. Ok, so, his opponent did not fight with talent, just brute strength with a dependence on weapons.

Thoughts on Sam, Dean pulled back his right fist, ready to land a knockout blow, when he unthinkingly shifted his weight to his right leg and BAM…..unable to support his now off-balance full weight, his calf buckled. He went down on his left knee and his opponent closed in to club him over the head with a glass bottle he'd snatched off a nearby table. Dean easily ducked and tucked, somersaulting forward. The bottle was swung with force and he took the blow on the back of his left shoulder, grunting when the bottled shattered.

Oh. Come. On! He groused irritably! Really? _Really_? What kind of cheap-ass bottle broke by merely making connection with a person's shoulder? He grunted, feeling the familiar heat of pain from jagged edges of shattered glass piercing his skin. Again he cursed over the fact all he wore was a t-shirt made of thin material. He came to his feet with a grace that belied the pain his leg was giving him and ignored the fact he was stepping on pieces of broken glass.

Somehow able to comprehend the thrashing Sam would undoubtedly give him should he sustain yet _another_ blow to the head, he grabbed a smooth, round stick from a shelf and with two swings, laid the attacker out cold on the floor. Breathing heavily, maybe even panting a bit, he used his teeth to tear two hand towels apart and securely hogtied the unconscious man now sprawled on the floor amid broken glass, blood and coffee.

"Sonofabitch." he muttered, wincing when he hunched and flexed his shoulders and back muscles. He tried to twist around but pain pulled him up short. Yeah, that never worked. He then tried to reach over his shoulder, then around his back, then under his arm. Nope, not gonna reach the shard of glass lodged in his back, left side just above his arm pit. He used his other arm to pick Lulu up and set her on her feet, mindful not to set her down amidst the broken glass. Amazing how many pieces of glass came from one broken cheap whiskey bottle. "Grab and pull. Tear the shirt if you have to." he turned his back to her and…..THUD. Great, just great, he sighed. Girl had held up remarkably well from a knife to her face, had witnessed a brutal fist-fight, had failed to react to any thought of what the attacker might have wanted or would have done to her and then ruined it all by going and fainting over a bit of blood.

Picking up the knife and contorting himself, he used the tip to prick and prod at the stubborn piece of glass until it finally popped free with, even to his well-adjusted ears, a sickening sucking pop. Leaving Lulu in a heap on the floor, he grabbed up the round stick and charged out to the bar.

He took several seconds to linger and observe before joining the foray. A freaked out couple huddled behind the bar and oh yeah, there was most definitely a fight going on. Obviously, the man he had left tied-up in the backroom had been sent after Lulu with no knowledge of Dean being in the room. Their mistake, he thought, slapping his palm with the stick.

One down, three to go.

"Sam?" Dean shouted, pausing before charging into the fray. Someone from behind the bar squeaked. The girl, Dean hoped, for no man should ever make a squeak like that in fright! Perhaps they thought he, all wild-haired, bruised, bleeding, brandishing a stick and hollering like a mad-man, was indeed a mad-man!

"Human." Sam shouted back. Dean didn't know how he knew, didn't care. Figured Sam being Sam, had found a way with salt or holy water or silver or iron or whatever, didn't matter. That one word voiced by _Sam_ was all he needed.

Now, Derek thought, that couldn't be right. What the hell? Had he heard correctly? First, Dean did not sound at all panicked. Second, he did not appear to be worried about Sam. Third, Dean had asked Sam a question just by saying Sam's name. Fourth, Sam had understood whatever Dean was asking and Derek was sure his reply of 'human' accurate. Fifth, Dean had neither qualms about witnessing the fight nor any fear over joining right in.

Sam was holding his own, leaving two against two…..well, Derek fought but, yeah, he was afraid to actually _hurt_ a woman despite the fact she was doing her best to either knock him out cold, or you know, kill him. Adrenaline blocking out the pain and discomfort, his aching head temporarily set aside, Dean gamely took on the male, leaving Derek to deal with the woman. Epic fail, that. Completely engrossed with taking the giant out, for unlike the attacker from the back room, this one actually knew how to fight, Dean missed the attack from behind.

Derek had paused, watching Dean for a second. As soon as Sam had responded, Dean had gone after the nearest fighter, but he didn't swing for the head with the stick he wielded. He swung for the shoulder, kidney, and gut. When an arm was raised and blocked a descending blow from the stick, Dean used a wicked left fist to rock his attacker back and off-balance. Another fist to the face and the man went down and stayed down, though not out.

And for not paying attention, Derek took a cuff to his ear with such force it knocked him to the floor. He jumped to his feet and whirled with a drawn fist to land his own wicked right cross but pulled up short when he saw who confronted him; the woman. She grinned because she knew by now that he wouldn't hit her and another blow put him back on his ass and left him with his bell rung. Damn, she could throw a punch!

Derek down and dazed and apparently no threat to her, she turned her attention to Dean. Dean however, had no such reluctance or hesitation when it came to swinging at a woman when she was coming at him brandishing a large, heavy glass mug by its handle. So, Derek thought dazedly, she wasn't stupid either. She wasn't going to go after _Dean_ with just her fists. How the hell did she know he would hit her back?

Had Sam been the one watching his back, Dean would have had nothing to worry about, but no, no he had Derek and Derek _still_ hesitated when confronted by a mug brandishing banshee. Dean didn't know why the other man was reluctant to put her down, but he didn't care. Anyone came at him or his brother with intent to harm, they were going down. A sharp, left uppercut rocked the woman back on her feet but not down. Damn.

Before he could catch his breath, she charged him again. Intent on protecting his crotch from a knee or fist, his right leg shaky, both feet stinging, he didn't jump back quick enough. Heavy boots trod on his toes, stomping and grinding. What the hell kind of shit-kickers was she wearing? OW! Dean yelped and stumbled, dropping his stick and instinctively holding his double-injured right leg off the floor. She came at him for the last time…..Dean's second fist to the jaw sent her to the floor and there she remained.

Recovering his balance, Dean planted his left foot and started a boxing match with the male attacker who had shaken off his dazing and rejoined the fight. His left arm didn't respond the way he wanted it to and his right leg kept twitching, his knee buckling a time or two. Tired and beginning to succumb to pain, Dean was clearly weakening. Fighting with a recent head injury sure as hell wasn't doing him any favors either. Derek heard Sam yell from across the room when Dean went down and before he could gain his feet and attempt to give Dean a hand, Sam was at Dean's back and the fourth and final attacker was quickly subdued.

Derek never did recall how Sam had finished off his opponent.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam stood in front on his brother, who was sprawled on the floor, and confronted a rather perplexed Derek who had no idea what had happened that had turned calm, peaceful Sam into this irate, wrathful – no, dangerous – man standing rigidly in front of him with a stance that promised violence.

"Sam?" Derek ventured carefully. "Is there a problem?" as he spoke he stepped to one side so that Lulu, who had finally emerged from the backroom and ventured into the bar, was blocked from Sam's view behind him and he raised his hands in a show of peace. "What's wrong?"

Sam was quiet, simply staring him down without blinking. Derek could almost envision his mind working, his thoughts searching but for what, Derek didn't know. Finally, Sam blinked, stepping forward to stand protectively over Dean who remained on the floor between his legs.

"Don't ever turn on him." Sam threatened. "If you….." he paused. "Just don't, okay? Don't ever." he didn't voice the threat that would happen if Derek did whatever Sam thought might happen and Derek nodded, glad to be past the silent standoff. "Never make me choose." he relaxed and Derek watched the tension and demeanor ooze out of him. "It's just…he, well…..he's trained to protect, to fight."

Yeah, Derek thought testily, to the death! To kill! 'Cause, oh yeah, Dean not only knew how to throw a punch, he knew where to hit to do the most damage and didn't worry about broken teeth or bones. Oh, not to mention dead-on proficiency in wielding weapons!

"We good?" he tested gingerly, lowering his hands and stepping back, waiting for Sam to stand down before offering his assistance with Dean. He wasn't so sure he wanted to. He didn't know if Dean were unconscious or merely stunned. Either way, he didn't trust Dean, half expecting him to come up swinging or shooting or stabbing. Sam though, apparently had no such fears, nor did he appear to care that his brother was still sprawled, unmoving on the wet, debris littered floor. Nope, no concern whatsoever!

"Next time." Sam began, pointing to the woman on the floor. "You don't hesitate. You got me? You'll get someone killed. Some girl sprouts off or slaps you 'cause you teased her, you let it go. She insults you, shrug it off. She comes at you with a weapon and the intent to put you down, you take her out." Derek, for all his size, was a lover, not a fighter and while able to get in a good punch here or there, was hindered by his reluctance to hit a woman. He was by no means ever going to win a fight against man or woman who knew how to throw a punch.

Derek swallowed and nodded. He didn't like this Sam.

"So, you two work for some secret spy service?" Lulu asked in awe, eyes wide with excitement. "You're spies! Like Jason Bourne or James Bond?" she appeared to think deeply then came to a decision. "No, Jason Bourne." she announced. "I like him better." she held towels of ice, once again remarkably calm for having witnessed such a violent bar fight complete with broken bottles, knives and the cold-cocking of her own, supposedly gentle, gender.

"Just another Saturday night." Sam said off-handedly.

"You okay?" Derek asked, giving her a hug to shush her over the fact it was not Saturday. "Holding up?"

"Butt's sore." she admitted with a cheesy grin. "Guy came through the door with a knife, Dean threw me across the room….." she saw Derek's dander go up. "Out of the way, he saved me." she hastened to assure her bartender friend. "They fought in the store room until Dean knocked him out and tied him up. Wonder why they didn't send the woman after little ole me?" she mused. Oh, how innocent, Sam thought. "Wonder what they want, why they're here?" she shrugged it aside. "So, are you spies? Wheee! Real spies! Who knew? This is so exciting!" she clapped her hands in excitement. "Real life spies!"

"No. No." Sam grinned, nudging Dean in the side with a gentle prod of his booted foot. "Get up." whatever ill-fortuned curse had befallen him needed to be found by Cas and removed – ASAP! When Dean didn't move, Sam squatted down and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, you with me?"

"Is he hurt?" Lulu asked anxiously. "Does he need ice? Here, I made ice packs. Why isn't he awake? Is he ok? He's bleeding. That guy he fought had a knife and he didn't. Is he losing too much? Derek! Help him!" she ordered, hands on her hips. "Now!"

"Chill out Lulu." Derek chuckled, shaking his head. He nursed swollen knuckles and various bruises but was otherwise unharmed. Sam had a mark or two and a couple of bruises but like Derek, he'd only been involved in a one-on-one bare-knuckled fist fight. Dean though…oh hell, he'd come charging bleeding and in pain, having already been injured, into the room wearing socks, swinging the wooden baton used for crushing ice that he'd used to ward off an attack from a knife-wielding asshole. "Just….how did he manage to come in here and fight like that? I mean, you said he was recovering from a bad concussion and Lulu said he fought the guy in the backroom before coming out here and…"

"That's Dean. Driven by an age-old need to either protect me or stop me from destroying the world." he shrugged. "Help me tie everyone up and drag them into the storage room." Sam said to Derek. "Then we'll call the police."

"What about Dean?" Lulu asked. "Aren't you going to help him?"

"You, aah, sit right there and watch him." Sam said. "And say good night to those two."

Lulu looked around in surprise, shocked to see the couple who hovered near the exit door. "Huh, you'd think he could have helped out in the fight." she huffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder in dismissal.

Sam just grunted, grabbed a foot and began to drag. Once the three on the floor had been tied up and carted off, Sam set about seeing to injuries. He sent Derek out to the Impala for their first aid kit and bullied Dean into an upright, seated position on the floor. He let him sit for several minutes before making him stand – if only on one foot – and take a seat in a chair, then went down on his haunches in front of him.

Dean didn't know what hurt the most: his head, his knuckles, his arms, his shoulder, his foot, his toes, his calf, his ego.

"Sit still, you big baby." Sam muttered, Dean's foot cradled in the palm of one hand, scissors between his teeth as he worked his brother's sock over his toes. "Almost got it." he gave up and used the scissors to cut the sock off. "Sit. Still."

"Ow." Dean winced, hitching his breath as his butt left the seat of the chair, his hands clenched on the edges of its seat. He somehow managed to not fall off it. "Fuck Sam!"

"Since when, do you get your ass kicked in a bar fight?" Sam fussed, ignoring Dean's outburst. "What the hell's up with that shit? And not once, but twice. Twice Dean! Twice! Against mere men!"

Mere men? Lulu caught Derek's eye who shrugged. Nothing mere about any of them! To her anyway.

"That HURTS!" Dean yelped. "EASY!" he hissed and growled his irritation. "HEY! They're already crushed! Don't break 'em!" Dean moaned and groaned and ow'd. And yeah, like that made any sense whatsoever. "SAM!"

"And one was a WOMAN!" Sam frowned, glancing up through hair that refused to stay out of his eyes. He expected Dean to be…well Dean. Cursing and carrying on, slapping at Sam's hands and insisting he could take care of his own possibly broken and crushed toes: that no, it didn't hurt; yes, he was just fine; no, he didn't need a doctor; yes, a shot of whiskey would make everything all better and would Sam _puhl-leeees_ go away and stop making such a fuss?

But no. No, Dean simply sat and allowed – _allowed_ – Sam to hold his foot and remove his sock. Sat and said nothing. Uttered an occasional ow or damn, face pale, mouth drawn tight with muted discomfort, if not downright pain. Sam removed a roll of tape from the first aid duffel Derek had retrieved and stuck it between his teeth. He was still doing his damage examination and would most likely need it next now that he'd finally gotten Dean to allow him to remove the sock.

"Leg gave way." Dean said in disgust, giving his calf a baleful look. "OW!"

"Since when do you take your boots off to take a nap?" Sam fussed irritably. The fact Dean had been involved in yet another bar fight, worry over their current circumstances, the unavoidable impending arrival of the police, Dean's behavior, or lack of, had left Sam quite cranky. "I mean really, Dean! Come on, you know better than to wander around a bar barefoot." he held Dean's foot up. "You sure swelled up awfully fast." the police would soon arrive, he still didn't know why the 'party-of-four' had come to the bar, waited until just before closing and then started a fight. Robbery? Mischief? Steal the Impala? Oh wouldn't _that_ have been just what he needed. Want a way to freak out a sane, mind-unaltered Dean? Fuck with his car.

"Well." Lulu interjected. "He's not really barefoot. He's wearing socks."

"Not helping Lu.' Derek chided gently. "Sam, what can I do?"

Dean swallowed, sweat beaded on his forehead and he shrugged a shoulder up to wipe his face. Okay, so no, not in his immediate recollection could he recall ever breaking or crushing any of his toes, but man-oh-man, even so, he didn't think it should hurt quite so much – _not this much_! Was he growing soft and losing his high threshold for pain or did broken or crushed toes really hurt this bad?

"Jesus Dean." Sam was still prattling on about how quick Dean's toes had swelled up and how soon they were turning purple with a promise to turn black. "Derek, some ice."

"Broken?" Derek plopped a towel of ice on the table. "Do you….uh, know what to do for broken toes?"

"Ain't much you can do for 'em." Sam replied. "Pop it back into place and tape it up. Maybe a splint, but that's awkward and uncomfortable."

"I can't believe she broke his toes!" Lulu chirped. "Are you sure they're broken?"

"Ow." Dean flinched with a curse, jerking when Sam tapped a fingertip to his large toe, flicking his finger from his thumb. "Stop it."

"Hurts that much?" Sam questioned, pausing. "Dean, dude…come on. They're toes!"

"Well hell Sam." Derek answered for a white-lipped Dean. "Broken bones are broken bones."

"Mmm." Sam set Dean's heel on his knee and reached for the ice. "How's the head?" he asked Dean. "Seeing double? Any bursts of light? Hey…..can you focus your eyes?"

"Hurts." Dean muttered, lowering his foot to the floor, which Sam allowed and accepting the application of ice. "Ow."

"What hurts?" Sam pushed for an answer. Dean didn't show any signs of another head injury, but with Dean, one could never be too sure of anything. "Dean? Hey?" he snapped his fingers to get Dean's wandering attention. "Focus your eyes….your eyes….no, your…look at me!"

"Does he need to go the hospital?" Lulu asked, squatting on the floor and unnecessarily holding the towel of ice in place. Derek made to have her move back but neither brother appeared bothered by her hovering and she appeared to be quite happy tending to her task, so for the time being, he decided to leave well enough alone.

"No." Sam said simply, then paused. "Not unless he doesn't show improvement after a couple of days."

Improvement? Derek frowned. What did that mean? Improvement in what? And why was Sam so casual and laid back about it all?

"How do you know his toes, and which ones, are broken?" Lulu asked curiously. "I mean, do you look for one to be crooked or something? 'Cause I think they are…..were…..are."

"The swelling." Sam answered distractedly. "Broken bones bleed and …."

"They do?" Lulu and Derek chorused together, eliciting a small grin from Sam.

"Which causes bruising." Sam finished. "Just usually not so quickly."

"They do kind of point all which way." Lulu nodded, jostling the ice. Dean groaned and she began to coo, patting his knee in sympathy while saying there-there. "That can't be good."

"The word is misshapen." Derek grinned at Lulu's petting. "So, you sure he's okay?" he asked, turning his attention back to Sam. "We can get him to the hospital."

"He's gonna waddle when he walks, looks like he broke his big toe, but he'll be fine." Sam sighed. "Ice and ibuprofen is all he needs."

"Percodan." Dean immediately corrected. "Why the fuck does it hurt so much?" he complained, rubbing his forehead, stopping with a curse when the action caused even more pain. "Shit."

"Yeah well Dean, broken bones." Sam chided. "And no hard pain meds."

Derek's eyes widened. Not three minutes ago Sam had pooh-poohed Dean's complaint about his toes hurting so much.

"You sure he shouldn't see a doctor?" Lulu persisted. "Big toe? I mean…"

Sam shook his head. No way in hell he was taking Dean back to the hospital for that quack to squawk at him some more. For all he knew, the police had been called after they'd left. Cas would arrive soon and all would be well, Dean would be completely healed then.

"If the blood pools and the pain gets too bad, I'll use a needle to poke a hole in his toenail to alleviate the pressure." unless Cas got there first. "We good?" he asked Dean, waiting for the nod of confirmation that finally, was delivered.

Lulu shuddered. "Eewwwww." she cast Dean as sympathetic look. "Sorry."

"His own fault." Sam shrugged. "Let me see your foot." he waggled his fingers and with a sigh, Dean lifted his foot – with a guiding hand from Lulu – ice and all, to once again rest on Sam's knee..

"Have a care." Dean said faintly, too tired and in too much pain to maintain his masculine façade. "Don't go being your usual rough self."

Sam said nothing in response. Just set the towel of ice aside and carefully inspected one toe at a time until he was satisfied he had an actual accounting of injury to all five. Dean sat stoically, uttering the expected occasional ow or curse but he tolerated Sam's gentle exam.

"I'll put padding between these two and then these two and tape 'em together." Sam decided. "Gonna hurt to walk for a couple of days, but you'll be fine."

"You're gonna make it straight though." Dean winced. Dear God, his foot hurt clear up to his knee. Man…..that couldn't be normal. It just simply could not be normal. "We don't have a splint."

"These two, well yeah." Sam confirmed, missing the shadow that settled in the depths of green eyes that already reflected misery. "I've set your fingers before."

Yeah, thought Dean crossly, and my whole fucking arm throbbed like a bitch for a week! He sighed, wanting the world to stop and give him time to….to…..to just wallow. He wanted everyone's attention, he wanted everything to be all about him, but no, the conversation around him went on like he wasn't even there.

"Maybe he should sit on the floor." Derek suggested casually, reading the discomfort and pain on Dean's face. "Before he falls off that chair.

"Maybe you should let him have the pain meds he wants." Lulu was saying. "And maybe some strong whiskey."

Sam replied but his voice was lowered and Dean couldn't make out what he said. Probably something stupid about strong meds and hard liquor not a good combination, Dean thought crossly. Derek answered and the conversation continued without him.

"Can we just go?" Dean asked tiredly. He really didn't feel well and the lure of a comfy bed, horizontal position, warm fire and promise of solitude pulled strong. "We're done here." he bit at his lower lip, almost, but not quite, classifying the pain shooting from his foot to his knee as agony. "Place is closed, right?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Guess." Sam said. "Move to the floor and let me tape you up first."

Dean tried to push up from the chair but nope, didn't happen. With only one foot on the floor, his head pounding, his vision blurry at best, when he put his palms on the seat of the chair to push up, he went over sideways. Lulu was neither attentive nor strong enough to catch him and he hit the floor, landing on his right shoulder.

"OW!" he groaned miserably. "Sam!"

"You ok?" Sam asked impatiently, still holding Dean's injured foot in his hand. "Sit up."

"Think…I'm…..gonna…..puke."

"Whoa, here you go!" Derek quickly emptied a tin pail used for peanut shells and set it on the floor next to him. "Say, uh Sam…isn't that, you know, cause for concern?"

"Nope." Sam helped Dean turn on to his hip, then sit up, the small pail cradled against his chest with one hand. "Just the sudden change in altitude." he ignored Dean's current discomfort and focused on his foot. Dean had all the comforting and pampering he needed from Lulu as she dabbed at the cuts on his arms with a wet towel.

Caught up in misery – his head, his foot, his stomach, Dean struggled to sit still and gain control of his traitorous stomach. Huh….well, ow…what the….now see here…..oh come on! Fuck. That. Hurt.

"What about his shoulder?" Lulu was asking, giving voice to the latest pain and complaint Dean felt.

"What about it?" Sam asked absently, not really listening. He was focused on wedging padding between Dean's toes as gently as he could. He didn't need a puking-passed-out brother! Dean was taking the foot manhandling quite well. Only wincing and tensing, making no attempt to jerk his foot away from Sam's administrations.

"It's really bleeding now." she said. "And his arm. See?"

Sighing, Sam looked up. He glanced at the knife swipes on Dean's forearm, giving a poke with one finger. His, able-to-quickly-assess-Dean's-injuries, eagle eye instantly classified the cuts as superficial and shallow, no need for concern. Now, bleeding shoulder? What the hell was that about? Torn t-shirt, back soaked in blood…..yeah okay, that warranted some attention. Why hadn't Dean said something?

"What the…..?" Sam gingerly set Dean's foot on the floor and went up on his knees to lean over Dean's shoulder and get a better look. He reached down Dean's back, bunched the hem of his shirt up in one hand and pulled it up to his neck. Lulu paled and Derek whistled, but Sam dismissed the jagged cut and let the t-shirt fall.

"Say, ah, Sam." Derek began. "That looks nasty."

"It's nothing that can't wait." Sam replied dismissively, returning his attention to Dean's foot.

"Say what?" Lulu sputtered. "Did you not just see that? See what we did?"

"Won't need stitches, just looks bad."

"And you know that, how?" Derek persisted. "I mean, okay, sure you know a fair amount of first aid, but Sam, come on. You sure that ain't, I dunno, muscle or tendon or something?"

"We should take him to the hospital." Lulu announced. "Get him some help. That knife was big and sharp and….."

"That cut isn't from a knife." Sam was rooting in the duffel. "He dug the glass out by himself." Lulu nodded. "With a knife." another nod. "He just opened it up a bit more swinging and throwing punches."

"How do you know that?" Lulu asked. "I mean, yeah, you're right, but how do _you_ know _that_?"

"It's Dean." as though that explained everything in simplicity, Sam reached for a roll of tape. "Too ragged." whatever that meant. "And what you see is skin."

"Yeah, sure." Derek voiced doubtfully. And Sam knew that how? "Guess, if you know that."

"You are going to take care of that though, aren't you?" Lulu demanded. "Do something for him? It has to hurt."

"Yeah." more rooting, pawing actually, in the duffel. "Can't have him bleeding all over everywhere."

"So, like what?" Derek wanted to know.

"Clean it out, butterfly Band-Aids." Sam found what he wanted. "Not an issue."

Say what?

"What do you think those people wanted?" Lulu asked. "I mean, why were they here? They had no reason to cause trouble, so they must have wanted something."

"Robbery most likely." Derek said. "Doesn't really explain why they'd start a fight but…Sam? Any ideas?"

"Just the kind of people they are." Sam replied, focused once again on his brother's foot. "Sit still."

"I am sittin' still." Dean retorted with a pout. "Well," he amended, "Sittin' anyway."

"Is he going to get his boot back on?" Lulu asked. "It's too cold outside to walk barefoot."

Yeah, but as you pointed out earlier, he's not really barefoot, Sam thought. "I'll pull the car closer." he used his teeth to tear self-adherent pressure tape from the roll. "Hey!" he slapped Dean across the knee to stop his butt-inching retreat. "Stop that and stay still." he wrapped and wound the tape around Dean's toes to secure the padding and bandaging.

"Whiskey?" Dean asked quietly.

"No." Sam barked, paused, looked at Dean and relented. "Okay. No, but…..here." he reached again into the green duffel bag by his hip and withdrew a handful of various colored packets. He dropped them on the floor, rooted through them and selected a pale blue one. "Open it." he told Lulu, his hand still cupping Dean's foot. "Water?" he asked Derek, who nodded and produced a bottle with the cap off. "Thanks."

Dean didn't question the offer and willingly swallowed the pills, using his shoulder to wipe his mouth.

"Aspirin?" Lulu asked as Sam tossed the remaining packets back into the duffel. "Never seen white Advil before."

"Yeah, sure." Sam flashed a cheesy grin. "We gotta go." he told Derek. "You called the police?" Derek nodded.

"Will you be back?" Lulu asked innocently, but not Derek. No, he understood.

"I want to get him home, let him go to bed." Sam said. "Derek, I'm sorry…never meant to bring trouble to your door."

"What? Why would you think….? You didn't." Derek said firmly. "Sam….."

Sam shrugged. "Dean attracts violence…he…he…well, he just does."

"You sure he's gonna be okay?" Derek asked. "Anything I can do? Thanks isn't nearly enough but…"

"Yeah, we've got a friend coming…he'll take care of Dean." Sam assured him. "We're good."

"Let me give you a hand getting him on his feet and out to the car. Lulu….pull their car as close to the door as you can."

"Keys." she held her hand out, gave Dean one last 'pet' and rose to her feet. "I'll get his boots. He can at least wear one."

Sam helped Dean get his boot on his good foot and set its mate with the first aid kit. He'd carry them out after he had Dean settled in the car.

"You ready?" he squatted down and draped Dean's arm across his shoulders. "Up you go."

"Say Sammy." Dean paused, biting his lip but a wince and a pained ow betrayed his attempt to keep control. "Next time…..you want a vacation." another pause, another wince. "How about leavin' me home?" he groaned, testing his weight on his foot. Nope. Okay then, maybe just his heel…nope…..another fail. "Ow!"

"Say what?" Sam responded stupidly, concentrating on balancing Dean's weight between himself and Derek and keeping Dean on his feet while navigating the icy parking lot. Lulu carried the duffel and Dean's boot and volunteered to open the car door.

"You find trouble wherever we go." Dean replied, hopping, limping, and hobbling. No. really, broken toes should not hurt like this. Not at all. He started to pant, pain flaring up the length of his leg and making his ass cheek tingle.

"M…Me? ME!" Sam sputtered. He came to a halt but Derek didn't and his momentum carried them all forward. "Now see here, we never had any trouble here at the bar until tonight when _you_ came to work with me!"

"See?" Dean groaned, hopping on one foot and angling to collapse on the backseat of the car. "Your fault."

Bewildered, Sam demanded. "How so?"

"You shudda left me at the cabin."

"If only I had." Sam muttered. "If only."

***END***


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